The Boss, at three, assigns context through personification. Take, for example, her thoughts yesterday morning when we rose before the sun to bring The Partner to the train station:
"It's not day yet." She was perplexed in front of the bay window as her upper lip guided her face into a small yawn. She looked jealously outside. "The sun must still be resting."
Her reality becomes a story. She fabricates understanding. The Boss views the world from the carseat of modern mythology.
Having returned to the train depot to pick up The Partner at the end of the day, we headed home again via I-95. We were all quiet. We looked fixedly ahead. Several vehicles in front of us, sheets of ice careened off the top of an SUV.
"That snow does not want to stay on the truck," The Boss commented.
The Partner and I nodded. I hummed my agreement in absentminded vibrato.
The car behind the ice-wielding Ford flashed its high beams vigorously. More ice fell. The asphalt took the brunt of the shatter, luckily, but that precedent didn't stop me from shrinking deeper into my seat with each new chunk.
The Boss continued to marvel. "Wow. It really wants to get off."
I nodded again, resisting the urge to put my hands out in front of my face.
"The ice is freaking out," she said.