A child will give childhood, all over again ~ Malinda Words

Everyone has had a childhood. Not all childhoods are pretty, made of smiles and laughter, ribbons and toys, kite-flying and paper boats. There’s wonderment. There are tears. Ups and downs. Good days and bad. For some, more bad days than good. Childhoods we have had.

Some of us have children. Some have children who have children of their own. Some don’t. Nevertheless, childhoods we have had and known, and children have we known, know and see all the time, our own or someone else’s.

And what do we see and what do we know? Each child is a universe and each child inhabits a universe that’s unique. A child will not state this truth and doesn’t have to. A child will be a child; the name of the territory inhabited is irrelevant and the boundaries need not be marked. Indeed, it is probably the case that there are no boundaries in the first place.

I saw a child a few months ago. She was painting a stone. A white stone. She was surrounded by the tools of her craft and the world around her work was, to put it bluntly, a mess. What came out of that mess was breathtaking. The colors, lines and the use of whites, the white of stone and the white of paint, made me stop and wonder.

I saw a child a few months ago. I saw the child play with cats. I saw the child with the dog. The child would never eat if the pets hadn’t eaten. They got petted. They got fed. They got to play. They were even left alone too, if that’s what the child felt was needed most.

I saw a child who never seemed to sleep. There was always something to do. Always some responsibility. Always assignments to finish. Always someone to talk with. Always someone to fight with. Always someone to bake cookies for, make a gift for, write a letter to. Her everyday was made of 48 hours, it seemed to me.

I saw a child who had words and long, brooding silences. The child could argue and wouldn’t stop. Victory was simple: the last word. The child got it. The child would sometimes leave a room filled with noise, foul air and poor taste. The child knew, probably, that things clear, sooner or later. The child would go to preferred spaces, recover composure, paint a rock, make a card for a friend, listen to a favorite song, pick up a cat or check something online.

I saw a child sleeping surrounded by pits and pieces of paper, some with paint and some with words. There were soiled clothes and books. Novels and notebooks. A shawl, a bed sheet and a rag. A glass of water, a mug of coffee, a plate with a half-eaten meal, orange peel and various odds and ends.

I saw a child and was speechless. And so I wrote.

What magic wand do you wave

when with color and line and whiteness

 tremendous distances you collapse

 to cast in stone your heart?  

Among the thousand and one  'chores'

how is time for caress found 

and how with infrequent and brief touch

 are spells cast on cat, on dog, on me? 

 Is it star dust gathered and sifted 

that glance and nonchalance decorate 

as you flit from planet to planet 

in snap-fingered nimbleness?  

And how without flourish

 or even painstaking dissolution

 do you from vocabularies silence distill 

and nevertheless so much say?

There’s a child we have been and a child we are, a child we can ignore and a child we can notice. A child who will open a window and let the light in. A child who gifts childhood. All over again.

Other articles in the series 'In Passing...': [published in the 'Daily News']

Jayantha Jayamuni De Silva, a weapon of wisdom

Reflection-conspiracies

Sean Connery, his many faces and one that I will keep

Ajith the Indomitable

And in the USA they are trying to catch falling pianos

The address of 'The Nation'

Willie Dixon made sense

There's a 'some mother's child' we rarely notice

Fear days and days of fear

'Sightings' that are simply blinding

Words: their sources, halfway houses and journeys