The story we tell ourselves
Tin lays in bed at night and has his plush toys speak for him – “Superdome?” “Yes!” “Marching Band. Louis Armstrong. DRUMS!” “Oh no, fell down. Trumpet.” “Trombone. Tuba!” This morning for breakfast he sat in his high chair and told us an intricate story about Louis Armstrong, the Superdome, falling down on the bayou, milk, and a flute. He looks at us like there is something wrong with us for not understanding his narrative. I feel his pain.