D: am i turning 75 yet?
Me (distracted) not so soon. Why?
D: i will be so old. What if i cant walk? Then i cant find u. I think i will be so sad.
Me.
Taking a deep long breath.
Time stops, my son.
Time stops when u talk like this.
when you were almost 4
You dont know it yet, but the next time yr eyes open, you are four.
To us, most days, you are our first born. We dont remember now really, when u first walked. Tho u neither turned nor crawled. We know yr first word was duck. we dont know when or where u picked up words or letters but i always rem your first taste of english soil. N dried leaves. Literally.
I remember loving winter walks. Until the mmt i discovered yr socks fell off n i started crying n counting yr toes before i realise if its frostbitten it might drop off as i count them n then i didnt know what to do.
we always rem what made (and makes) you laugh. U eating flowers as a tottering 1 yr old. love walking ard flowers so carefully as a 2 yr old. Love plucking them when u turned 3. Almost 4, u now pluck them relentlessly n feed them to yr little brother.
Yet now that you are four. (Almost), Increasingly, as u run off shouting in yr imaginary races, yr dad n i do this instinctive catch-the-eye promise.
You, our first born, are born free. And it is a big world to be exactly that. We try to remember that. Dreams, little boys and laughter, need space. Stars in the dark skies.
We celebrate you. We celebrate Your womderful normalness. yr days. If 4 chpater yrs was a prelude. It will be Filled with roudy laughters. quiet sadness. Loud tears. Mistakes. defeats. Integrity. Misunderstoods and misunderstanding. Spilled milk. Pain. Hope. Missing toys. Faith.
And always. Love.
We cant fix many things. Except maybe disjointed transformers toys. But not Yr disappointements. Nor fight yr fights. Nor live up to expectations. (i wil always rem yr teacher asking me when u turned 3. Why does dan say “life is not fair but its ok” when yr friend fell down) and this is a hard world. U asked when i would die. Just like the patients i see. N i said i didnt know. And you said “that is a terrible answer. Mama u promise you will be there every morning ok?” And you started crying as u promised u will buy me medicine.
My heart died a bit tt night as it also grew so much from yr not -little -at -all understanding of life, love and loss.
You are older now. You cried as you fret over about how chickens will walk since u discovered that people eat chicken legs. You rationalised that the venus fly trap needs food so u patiently squat for flies n ants who are “not animals cos there is no blood!” U try to make sense of a mad mad world while lying on grassy grass. (Why do u call grass grassy? Because nothing else is grassier than grass mama)
Come morning, as u jump off your bed into ours again, you remain a noisy reminder, what a gift this just-another-thusday is. And we are so so glad you are here. Because. Mama knows. Deep down. I can never work hard enough nor do enough or be good enough to deserve this bit of 94cm almost 15kg.
Sleep well. Dream lots. Hold tight.
Our little almost 4 year old.
tears that were real
Sadness is. A page that doesnt turn.
No matter how hard we wish it.. want it. Try.
It doesn’t. like tar on cotton. like guilt on skin.
Sadness. The pages passed seem different. But we cant tell really. Because this page. This long page of this chapter. Or maybe this is it. Maybe there is simply. No more.
Paralysis implies we cant move.
Yet sadness, this time, Is like
Darkness to the blind.
He blinked. squeeze eyes tight. Howl.
We. forced the lids apart with our hands. We coax cajole command.
Yet. We see his little courage falter as he grip, so tightly, his forgetten reward of a brave transformer.
Half afraid to open because he fear the pain. Half because he no longer trust the eyes to give him sight without discomfort. We cry out. Him in frustration. Me. Weeping at a lack of any reasonable response.
Sadness. As we held him.
As we go through test after test.
Surely our mind knows. Everyone has such a page. Even now there are heavier pages from longer stories.
We dont have right to complain in the grand scheme of medical problem.
But this. Is never abt competition on a scale of life ranked morbidity and mortality.
This scratching of his cornea.
Even years of it.
She says it must have been painful. N i think of All the useless advice when we brushed it off. Lightly. For years.
The dye that showed the scratches. as though a trapped angry cat skidded across his eyes.
Someone slashed my wicked lazy careless heart to the sound of his sobbing.
This almost comical insane cause which manifested as easy brushed off cries. Truly. I failed him. For a yr. Or two. Or since birth. Or Too long.
Really. I did turn my ears. My eyes. Away. Where was the instinct? Surely no cleaner concrete proof. I had none.
We write to purge really.
And in days, pages to come. Maybe this is nothing.
Maybe it is not. I cant tell anymore.
This is the start of the reading of this page. This well deserved sadness of my failing.
I know now. Once again.
His mercies are new every morning.
Even if it is the same to me.
Yet He turns. He turns. Quietly. Thanklessly. Patiently.
Kindly. He writes.
He gives the bleak, a written promise from his spoken word.
Who to trust when i see clearly, it is not me. Never was.
I stared hours since the eye tests.
the page is the same. The sound of the children’s tired breathing. This ill fitting uncomfortable tightness in my heart. Constricts as i stare.
This Sadness is.
A page that doesn’t turn.
绝版吧
没正据 我们也活着过吗?
没了占据 我们依然不缺
绝綜吧
这世界
一亿 记忆
我们依然
tree kids in this season 