 |
| I wasn't familiar with Ms. Chodron, a Tibetan nun, but I liked the picture and agree with the message. |
cut people open (in a providential way)
and so I bought him models of the
body, puzzles of the bones. Now
older, more complex, he gravitates
to other things and moods I can not
find a model to explain. Now he's
the puzzle that is missing pieces,
hidden underneath his bed or
in a pocket, making it impossible
to get it right. Oh, for a super hero's
x-ray eyes to see inside his head
and find the questions he comes
close to asking before stopping just
a little short. I need a name, some
terminology, a box to put him in, examine,
and then fix so he is happy. Not when
he is all grown up, but now. And even
though it's not a gift that anyone
can give him, what a failure it
can feel to love a child so much it
hurts, all thumbs when it's a surgeon's
hands he needs. An artist and I'm
still on paint-by-number. He is rocket
science, and I can't see beyond the moon.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014
No comments:
Post a Comment