sword fight

I entered the apartment after the first round of the battle had ended. Garrett was convalescing on the couch, approximately six "magic band-aids" covering various parts of his body. The weapons, two foam swords purchased earlier in the day from the dollar section at Target, lay haphazardly on the floor beneath him.

"Are you okay?" I asked him as I took off my coat.

"I sick," he said in his most pathetic voice. "I wost a arm."

Blake entered the room then, supplementing Garrett's woeful account with a brief report of how the battle had gone down. "I totally whooped him," he said as he picked up one of the swords. "You ready to go again, Garrett?"

Garrett, apparently no longer suffering, leaped from the couch and drew the second sword. "Yeah!" he grinned as he whacked his opponent on the leg. "You wost a leg!"

Father and son bandied back and forth, both speaking in swordplay sound effects and losing limbs as fast as their swords could swing. They stopped only briefly to catch their breath and to cover each other in invisible, though miraculously healing, magic band-aids. I stood back and watched, dodging as I did jabbing gray blades, while their happy war waged on.