beautiful child
There is no narrative, just stuff, and stuff happening.
This summer the tag ugly child appeared all over our neighborhood. I don’t know the language of graffitti, and every time I glance down at the sidewalk and see those words, they read like an accusation. And then a few weeks ago, walking to the pharmacy in the rain with the ten-year-old to get his bivalent booster, I saw the tag beautiful child on the side of the neighborhood Duane Reade. I pointed it out to the ten-year-old, but I don’t think he cared. He doesn’t like it when I call him beautiful.
I started writing this post last night and found myself unable to create a narrative from these observations. I’m recovering from writing my capstone. Did I finish it with steadiness, with my eyes open, as I said I would? I submitted it a week ago yesterday but don’t remember. Probably not. Toward the end, working on it consumed every spare moment of every day, and then some. And now, without one big thing occupying so much of it, my mind feels like a junk shop, jumbled with random detritus.
There is no narrative, just stuff, and stuff happening, and a voice murmuring in my mind, Who cares, nobody cares. And also, in purple letters on a wall in my neighborhood, the message beautiful child.
How is the end of the year finding you? Wishing you well! xox
