not the way you wear your hair

two days ago he sauntered into the locker room with a towel on his shoulder. he looked in a little mirror as he took off his tie, his shirt. he unabashedly donned euro swim wear and, with a poise that only he could have, slipped into the olympic pool and cut through the water with white, skinny, hairy arms.

yesterday he twirled on the ice with a sweat-pant-capri'd (?) peggy fleming. the camera work makes me teary eyed - the zoom on his skate as he slips his beige socked foot into the thing and begins to thread the laces. i cannot describe my emotions at moments like these, something between feeling really special, which is the intent of rogers, i believe, and really gypped, something like, "why didn't i ever become a figure skater?" i feel a certain sadness and an unsatisfied feeling of wishing when we take these outings together, only not together. up close and real, only not close at all and utterly not-for-real.

henry freaks out and cries, "mr. rogers, i want to swim with you!" he touches the tv and is completely saddened that we are in our living room and not swirling about beneath the surface, kicking our legs into a spin, our own bodies washed whiter and smoother in the water.

"look at his hair! look at his face! i want to swim!" shrieks henry.
"it looks like so much fun. we need to go to the Y to swim." i say.
"where is poppy! poppy will take me to the Y!"

mournfully we discuss that poppy is at work, that the Y is not open for free swimming at that particular time of day, and that mr. rogers is not at our Y right now.

he touches the tv and whimpers something to mr. rogers who smiles and displays his perfect, imperfect, "breaststroke, sidestroke, fancy diving," etc., his hair stuck to his smile wrinkles.

"i want to skate! i want black skates and ice and i want to hold his hand!" he shrieks the next day.
"it would be fun to ice skate -- look at how they spin together!" i commisserate, wondering if peggy annoys herself with her long hair whipping across her face as she flits across the smoothness.
"i want to do that! help me, mr. rogers!" he cries, zapping his fingers on the fuzz across the surface of the tv.

mr. rogers pretends to nearly fall down. peggy tells mr. rogers that she is still learning, that she is learning every day. mr. rogers smiles at us and the two of them glide to the wall.


i realize that i would make any number of sacrifices to pay for a mr. rogers to be a neighbor for all of us, to take us to caves with blind saxophonists, to teach us to sniff the waxy smell of crayons as the colors flick across the conveyer belt, to loan us snazzy zip up cardigans, to hold our hands as we cross the street to yo yo ma's house of cello.