Serenity

I look forward to being serene again. Today is blog day. It's annoyingly unseasonably cold in New York. Where is it more serene? In the valley or at the top of the peak? The water is where the river is: in the valley. I'll go wherever it's warmer. I miss the four even seasons of a childhood in a much friendlier place. I'm not staying by choice now; I was left here.

Better days will come; they have to. So many children robbed of their childhoods. I can only help so many. One hand to help myself, another for another, with no less purpose.

The books are so heavy and take up so much space now, and I'm writing one. Three times over I've replaced the desired wall of tomes, upgrading the quality over time, yet not voluntarily; the other two libraries were lost to destruction. One by a flood, another by giving more than taking, with yet another taker to replace the one before right behind him.

No more. The child will not be the same. The role model for lack of a comparison cannot stick. Screaming into the wind or a black hole will cease, and the child will thrive again, unafraid of what anyone else thinks from one moment to the next, unlike the way it was, for too long.

Wherever I am at that moment, serenity will return; my hand will be there when he reaches out for it, whenever he wants, as it always has been. The barriers will be identified and broken down, their source understood, maybe even addressed.

All that matters immediately is that what remains of a childhood can be lived out to its fullest. The buried memories will return only as they are useful, and with minimal further harm. Then, if not before, we will be serene, and a family again.