As the weeks of coronavirus isolation roll on, my heart goes out to the children who long to run and shout across playing fields and school playgrounds, picking up once again the friendships and negotiations that help them negotiate their growing years. Grandparents like myself feel powerless to come to the aid of their working- and- educating- from-home parents – our children. I hope Maggie Smith’s words can help.
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
Follow up Maggie’s words with this joyful slice of sound.
God be with you,