I sat on the park bench, watching her play.
Climbing, hanging, swinging, perching, exploring, gathering.
What goes through her precious mind when she hangs upside down, wind in her hair? Does she feel the peace of the warm breeze on her face? Does she feel free and easy for one simple moment of her otherwise tangled existence?
What is she searching for as she scours the earth for its tiny treasures? With each shell and rock and leaf that she clutches in her hand, does she feel the everychild joy of collecting?
Or can she only feel the hot sun as an enemy, burning her intentionally, making her miserably hot. Can she only gather rocks in an attempt to eventually have it “all”?
She fusses and whines and we leave the park. It’s too hot, mommy. I’m bored, mommy.
Oh precious child of mine, please breathe peace in the wind. Find joy in your tiny treasures. Climb, and hang, and be free. Time is flying, my love. Don’t let these last days of childhood pass you by. You need them; for your soul, for your memory, for your life.