"When is a door not a door?"
"When it's ajar," I replied automatically. "That one's older than I am."
The tousle-haired boy and I were sitting on the curb, reading the comics in the early morning light as Orwell enjoyed breakfast on the lawn.
"It must be hard to come up with something new every day," he suggested.
"Well," I continued, "I never thought it was funny in the first place. Nobody I know ever says 'ajar.' Doors are either open or they're closed, you know? There's no middle ground."
"OK, let's try another one," he said. "When is a rabbit not a rabbit?"
"Let me see that!" I said reaching for his section of the paper. "That sounds like a message from Orwell! Or did you make it up?"
"I'm just trying to figure out what you've got here," he said, gesturing to the rabbit who was now walking upright, his head down, his arms behind him, inspecting the lawn like the old-time comic movie actor Groucho Marx. "Maybe he only looks like a rabbit."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean," he said, "that our bodies are not who we are. We're stuck with them, of course, but inside, we're completely different. Don't you think so?"
"I never thought about it," I admitted.
"Take you, for example," he continued, "Just because you look like a monkey doesn't mean you are one." He looked up from the newspaper and smiled, his brown morning hair wilder than usual.
'"Thanks a lot,' said the kettle to the pot," I replied.
"Don't mention it," he said.
Neither of us spoke for a while. I traded him the sports section with its colorful weather page and prediction of another pre-spring snowfall for the two pages of comics he'd just finished.
"Maybe he's your guardian angel," he said.
"Orwell?" I asked.
"Sure," he said. "Everybody has one. Few people know what they look like, though."
"Do you have one?" I asked.
"Sure!" he said, as if I'd just asked him if he had a heart or a brain or feelings like other people.
"Do you know what your guardian angel looks like?"
"Not really," he said. "I used to think he might look like my father, but then I figured that would be too obvious. Angels are masters of disguise. He's probably found some other body to be in now. Maybe even yours."
"Oh," I said.
I put my hand on his shoulder and looked out at the streaks and cracks in the street that separated his house from mine. Except for the birds and squirrels and one distant dog walker at the far end of the street, we were the only creatures up and about.
Orwell arrived noiselessly and sat down between us as the sun rose in a magenta sky. After a long and reverent silence, the tousle-haired boy stood up, brushed off his jeans, and announced, "We better get ready for school."