On Loss and Moving On
Disclaimer: This is not about Michael Jackson.
I heard my daughter cry out and I rushed into the living room to see what happened. She was sitting on our big green chair holding the two halves of a broken twig in her little hands. One large tear rolled down her cheek as she looked up at me.
"He broke my stick. My most special favorite stick."
I'm pretty sure she had just found that stick, lying in a pile of a million other sticks, while we were outside only an hour before. But while her obsession with sticks and straws and long blades of grass alternately annoy me and charm me, I couldn't help but feel her sadness as she mourned her broken stick. At that moment it was her most special favorite stick and her baby brother had snapped it...like a twig...in a moment of utter brother-ness.
The situation was salvaged easily enough. I know her weakness well.
"Here Babe. You want the straw from my coffee?"
I heard my daughter cry out and I rushed into the living room to see what happened. She was sitting on our big green chair holding the two halves of a broken twig in her little hands. One large tear rolled down her cheek as she looked up at me.
"He broke my stick. My most special favorite stick."
I'm pretty sure she had just found that stick, lying in a pile of a million other sticks, while we were outside only an hour before. But while her obsession with sticks and straws and long blades of grass alternately annoy me and charm me, I couldn't help but feel her sadness as she mourned her broken stick. At that moment it was her most special favorite stick and her baby brother had snapped it...like a twig...in a moment of utter brother-ness.
The situation was salvaged easily enough. I know her weakness well.
"Here Babe. You want the straw from my coffee?"