Outgrown

Keith at age four had cause to wonder whether the best days of childhood might be behind him. The occasion for this anxiety was his grandmother's decision to give some toys that used to be his to his two year old bother, Leroy. His grandmother wasn't making this decision out of spite or favouritism. She recognized that these were toys that Keith had outgrown, and that Leroy had arrived at an age when he might take pleasure in them. The problem was that Keith had clear, powerful memories of his enjoyment playing with the pirate sitting on his treasure chest with the slot for pennies, the little plastic blue convertible which made sparks as you pushed it back and forth, the detachable plastic policeman on his motorcycle, and the animal picture book. Other toys had come to mean more to him, and he was, to his pained surprise, unable to recover the old sensations when he pushed his brother aside and reclaimed these objects for himself, trying to force the old magic into being. Why had he lost the natural ability to connect with them, when once they were able to gratify him for hours? When he gave them back to Leroy, he could watch something of his lost fascination arise in his brother's expression. They may not have meant quite as much to him, but he was, without strain, on the toys' wavelength. Was a similar experience of disenchantment in store for him with everything he was presently attached to? Was exile from childhood a looming catastrophe? And did what came after childhood promise to be the steady attrition of whatever had once come easily and been meaningful?