I see her every day, the little girl across the street. She’s brooming her terrace. Religiously – at about 12 P.M. She has the voice of an angel, but she brooms the terrace in silence. You’d think such a menial task should be accompanied by song – a whistle while you work kind of relief. But it’s not in her case.
It has meaning – and I reckon, my neighbor is growing up ahead of her time. Too fast. She brought me flowers the other day. Out of the blue, her sweet face in my living room, with a little floral arrangement in her hand. “My mom is sleeping,” my son said. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” she answered.
I guess she gave him the flowers. “I don’t know what to do with this,” the man-boy emerged. “Water,” she said in a sweet voice. And then I woke up. Here’s the thing about children now: they better us in ways we’ll get later or too late. Our little ones fight solitude and restrictions with the gravity of true heroes.
I heard of no brat instances. All the little ones are kinder, like saints walking alongside the condemned few. Our children are greater than us. The blessing of the little ones will eventually rub against hate and prejudice to make life a tad or two more bearable.
My little neighbor is a woman now. She’s only 11.
Come on people #stomptheyard – do not let them take our tomorrows.
Hello, young ones,
little ones, darling ones,
all-toes-and-fingers ones,
giggles and sighs,
tantrums and soft kisses,
sweaty palms,
sweet perfect imperfections ones.
We’re calling.
Hello, young ones!
Are you listening?
Come freezing rain, hail,
tornadoes and thunder,
your laughter brings about rainbows
promises of redemption
when hope is lost
and life happens.
Hello, young ones!
If not for your eyes
we’d never be certain
that breathing matters.
