5 years 9 months.... that's how long it takes to put them together, to reach the age most of the kids today were.
Really "hands-on", it's five years. Five years of your life - completely recentered around his or her life, everything of your own put lower, everything done for them, lived for them, any tiny advantage or help or joy to be given to them. Five years of blowing on food, of singing when they cry, of talking to them like adults and telling them secrets when you know they are too young to speak, five years of special buddies or princesses or helpers. Five years with an external heart - caring for it because you'll die without it. Five years of practicing, of teaching, of firsts, of it's-okaying, five years of making it all better, five years of signing the stupid thank-you notes like it's from them. Five years of seeing all the goodness and hope you could make. A three-year-old can talk like a six-year-old; a five-year-old can understand with you, hope with you, huddle and whisper with you.
And in one-tenth of a second it's just stained clumps of hair and they are nothing and neither are you. Without reason, without mercy, without bargaining or begging or fixing, without even being able to die wrapped around them to feel like in the last moment they had an ounce of your protection, of comfort, of anything it had all ever meant.
Five years and then nothing. Nothing. A gold chain round their neck, a goodbye song, a rock with words they would have spelled out slowly. Five years of everything solely for a lifetime of suffering.
Except, that is, if it was six, seven, eight, nine, or ten years.
There are times I regret our evolution, that the world would be better off belonging only to those creatures without identity, without selves, without hopes, without time. Like right now.
Edited by SoccerStar (12/14/12 05:04 PM)
"Don't think it hasn't been a little slice of heaven just because it hasn't!" --Bugs Bunny