Brick by Brick

I bought a green dinosaur: 174 bricks. Since when do they have 3-in-1 sets? T. Rex, Pterodactyl, and Triceratops all in one box. Back in my day, you would have had to buy each dinosaur and use miscellaneous green flat sheets from your Star Wars sets to foster their vegetive habitat. Asher talks about dinosaurs all the time; I’m sure he’ll like it. Of course, I shouldn’t pretend my donation isn’t soaked with selfishness and—I’m a little ashamed to say—envy.

Such a small box. I hold it in my hand internally scoffing. I bet I could build this in eight minutes. Somehow, I find supervillain levels of hubris in holding a Lego set for “ages 7-12.” Seven-to-twelve. But Asher’s only five. And with that sheering realization, the last thread drops, and my intentions stand naked.

I open the treasure which was to be his Christmas present. I’ll just buy him another one. I am the bandit that stole the sugar-sweet treats from the baby strollers! With surgical care, I slide my knife at the box’s end—cutting away the chance to tarnish the box by tearing it. Within my mind’s cave, I still have a puddle of a belief that I will deliver this box to the five-year-old (it’s a shallow puddle). The layers of the thin cardboard have been severed open. I hold the box by the other end and whip the opened side toward my desk. The plastic bag of smooth sidewalk grey comes out first. Then, the curved black daggers that serve as their claws. Sandstone blocks come next; I know they will form the bellies of the prehistoric behemoths. I hear that antique plop of lightly laminated paper: the instruction manual. I stroll down the catalog’s contents, turning pages at a pace independent from time.

My past begins to pelt me with memories. Yoda fighting the blue tank: 407 bricks, 2009. The set that I thought about as much as I did the imposing brunette classmate. She and I play footsie in class on the day my mom said she would buy the set. I don’t tell her how my life will change today when I get home and see Yoda waiting. I don’t tell her because I don’t want her to laugh at me with marinated sneers of superiority. I learned my lesson by telling my teacher about how many bricks there were—expecting encouraging, wide eyes of disbelief but getting the raised eyebrows of disinterest. I learn my passion for legos is something only my mother appreciates.

“Teach me how to be strong in the force, Master Yoda.”

More memories come. Black ninja training outpost: 45 bricks, 2011. It wasn’t the one I wanted. I didn’t know sets came this small. Momma can’t afford the Blue Ninja riding an ice dragon, 158 bricks. She is doing her best. I take the black ninja and put him on the window seal right above the air condition unit. The hotel AC blows cold. “I bet the ice dragon is stuck in there. If you train well, we can set it free.” I see momma out of the murky window in the parking lot; she is pacing while on the phone—conducting with unfriendly hand gestures and heavy tears. We’ve been evicted and the storage facility won’t return our belongings. I don’t know it yet, but momma is about to come up to the room and tell me I’ll be living with my grandmother for a while. There’s more: “the Legos are in storage and it might be a while before I get them back.”

I hope they all find good homes.

I formulate a plan for building the dinosaurs and clear my working space. I haven’t done this in a long time. I still remember my most difficult set: Darth Vader’s TIE fighter, 254 bricks, 2009.

It takes me all day to finish his starship. My mother comes in to check on me. Her smile is distilled love. When I finish, I go to her, announcing myself with pew pews and explosions from the back of my tongue. She doesn’t build but I know she understands why I do—she sees it on my tight cheeks and bottomless eyes. “After I finish your ship, you have to promise to take me and momma away from the bad guys…Yes, I know you’re supposed to be bad too.”

I squeeze my hands and glare at the assorted green, black, and beige pieces within their bags. I won’t do it. I put the bags back in the tiny box. They’re his dinosaurs. With tape, I cover my tracks.

I have no more Legos, now. Green dinosaur, 174 bricks, 2020, is in Asher’s hands. He looks at me. “Can you help me build it?”

As Asher hungrily rips the box open, what I lost greets me. SpongeBob at the Krusty Krab, 209 bricks, 2010, sits in someone’s living room provoking conversations. Frodo captured by the giant spider, 227 bricks, 2011, is in a collector’s cabinet. Spiderman’s bike and Nick Fury’s flying car, 237 bricks, 2013 is sold at a garage sale and becomes a child’s afternoon challenge. Superman protecting the city from General Zod, 119 bricks, 2013—my last set—has just been gifted by a father to reward his son.

They’re out there building memories brick by brick.