I am trying hard to remember when my child died. Was it the realization of my mortality aged three? Was it the brute hierarchy of school? Was it the troubles of family life and its lasting sadness? Was it the wretchedness of seeing so much worldly suffering; the enslavement of millions for the betterment of a few?
Probably all of them combined.
A child’s innocence cannot survive for long. It is feared by resentful men, reminding them that their identities are a façade, that once they were but unformed children; happy, innocent, inspired. My child is dying, screaming in fear. The adults stand in triumph with a ‘told you so!’
But children are playful entities and silly. I was only pretending to be dead, and I still got a few lives left! Na na na na na, guess whose coming back!