The Lighthouse

Recently changed the son's daycare to a place less than eight minutes away, a cute little place on the island that pops hopefully out from the backside of a curve and is denoted by sign upon which a smiling orange fish is followed by five multicolored minnows. It's a brand-new daycare run by two sisters and maintained by their vigorous retiree father who can always be found with some implement of mechanical remediation in his hand. The old man greets my son in the morning wearing the same forest-green polo shirt and wire spectacles, his gray curls in a state of dishevelment which he occasionally tries to address by dragging his palm across his forehead. He has the charming tendency, peculiar to certain grandfatherly types, of beaming with incredulous approval as my son hangs up his backpack and removes (with a wrench and a grunt) his shoes. The old man would clearly trade his wrenches and brooms for a chance to play games with the children, and conflict between duty and dalliance always leaves him a bit confused.
The two daughters, Masters of Education or Masters of Development (although I see the diplomas on their office wall every day I can never remember later the exact contents --the ornate font and the sunburst seal defeat my comprehension), are dismissive of "pop" and through the careful control of tone and glance direct him back to his list of chores before he gets himself invited to playtime.
The last week it has rained every day from sunrise to sundown and then on into the darkness, the quality of the precipitation ranging from prim gray slants to monsters of moisture that tried the windows with spongy hands.
I often ask my son, as we are driving to school, when he can see the lighthouse. At a certain stage in our journey it becomes visible over the treetops, and in response to my query he rocks in his child seat, craning his neck, struggling to see past the automotive obstructions. When he sights the lighthouse he is very proud. I then ask him what color is the lighthouse? And for the first sunny week he always responded the same way: "It's white and black and red."
This was true: white and black spirals running up its length, a red metal cap. However, when I asked him the same questions on a recent rainy trip, he (after the obligatory craning and rocking) said, "It's brown and gray and orange."
And so it was! Behind those gauzy curtains of rain, its stark coloration transmuted, the lighthouse screwed into the sky above the vivid foliage of the park. And then, as we rounded the turn that would bring Jonathan's daycare into our view, a trick of perspective made the lighthouse withdraw smoothly back into the treetops, as if it had never existed.
Sometimes just for a moment or two I imagine that I can see the world through my son's eyes -- massive, magical, infinite in power and promise.