I believe five year olds are the most insightful in times of questioning, in times of great desire for answers.
From the outside of my car, from outside of the talk radio, outside of the news coverage of the virginia tech shooting, everything appears to be the same. The doors are still painted teal, teh namy striped window awnings are still striped navy and white. The small talk, here on the streets in Delaware’s quaint historic town is even still the same, talk of wasting time, talk of 40-50 mile an hour winds, talk of all the trees down.
“Everlasting love” is the song playing in the coffee shop. “I need you by my side, girl to be my bride,” I hear and suddenly my dollar coffee, made from beans grown in Indonesia’s volcanic ash could not even melt this feeling away. I suddenly want to get married, I want to run away somewhere warm. After searching 20 minutes for socks that match, after hearing teh Virginia Tech Creative Writing professor speak of her student who killed 32 as though he was less then something. Hearing her statement that “Speaking to him was speaking to a hole.” I want to walk outside barefoot. I want to get married. After a morning of listening to the world reject, rebuke, diminish a human being down to a hole. I want to be taken, to be haved, forever, with someone who will have me in all my mismatched socks.
I think of my dear friend, a martial artist ground fighting an oversized man. I think of this time, when he has no chance. When he has to learn to take this oversized individual on his feet. I think when he learns he will never make it on the ground. I think of Cho. I run into Michaels arms telling him, even here, on the ground when he is defeated, when he has no chance of redemption, when he cannot save himself, when he cannot move, lifeless, powerless, empty,when he is rejected down to nothing, only a hole, i will have him.
This is the same day someone buys Christopher Reeves Superman suit for $100,000. This is also the day my 5 year old daughter insists on circling the parking lot, searching for her lost penny, the smallest, least valuable. As writers in literary communities, we circle the parking lot for each other, searching until even the one who has not yet become appreciated, who’s value is still emerging, we circle, searching for them until they are found.
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