broken toys

 

“No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,” he began, “especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?”

“They go to hell,” was my ready and orthodox answer.

“And what is hell? Can you tell me that?”

“A pit full of fire.”

“And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?”

“No, sir.”

“What must you do to avoid it?”

I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come was objectionable: “I must keep in good health and not die.”
― Charlotte Bronte, Jayne Eyre
 

 .
The laughter

The tears

The triumphs

The fears

All gone in a single day…

 

The struggles and stories,

the broken toys and

girls and boys

playing and fighting and

scuffling and tussling,

the vain attempt

to quell contempt from

uncaring mothers

when so many others

came and went

Two- and three- and four-year olds,

Trying to vent

frustrations

they didn’t even know they had.

 

So, am I sad? you ask me,

curiously,

as though this is just another day…

And it is, I suppose.

But…it’s not every day

you throw away

the one chance a child

could roam free –

even wild,

and laugh without

fear of reprisal.

So many firsts, banked

in memory…

first steps,

first words,

first scribbles,

first nibbles

of a silly new dish

with a shiny white spoon

tiny hands,

constantly reaching

for me,

constantly teaching…

 

So my day was sad,

and angry,

defeated and

weary…

Teary-eyed and even dejected

 

Thankfully

I have not rejected

the possibility of hope

for those who insist on sliding down

that slippery slope

dragging the little ones behind them.

I pray that they will find

another way.

 

But yes, I was.

I was very sad today.

 

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