On death

My daughter is a writer! I could say that I've been a good example and because of it, she will someday write the great American novel and support me in my old age. But that's not it. I think she writes because she's learned how to read and how to write and therefore, how to express herself. Those skills we adults now take for granted, are amazing, eye-opening, wonderful tools that clarify and illuminate her world. And I think she writes because Grandma and Grandpa gave her the tools to do such - a green pen and a big notebook full of empty pages - as a Christmas gift. And now she writes one-page stories about herself, her little sister and brother, the weather, and dying.

It's funny that such a little girl would write about death but all her stories end with one of the characters dying. I could say it's because she watches too much t.v. but she doesn't - she prefers to play outside or in our basement or in her room - all places where there is no t.v. Her constant companions are only (!) her imagination and her best friend - her little sister "M."

On one occasion, approximately two months ago, I asked my daughter "K.D." why she was being particularly mean to her younger sister. She said she didn't know. I asked her if she had learned it at school? From one of her friends? If people at school or in our neighborhood treated her like that so she treated her little sister like that? "No," she kept replying, "No, no, no." I asked her where the K.D. that used to be sweet and good was? Where was the the little girl that was complimented by her Kindergarten teacher (last year) for being so kind to everyone in the class? She said she didn't know where she was but she kept looking for her, and "Now," she said as she began to cry, "I can't find myself."

I'm sad for her. I know there are terrible, unjustifiable, and unspeakable things that happen to children but for today, I'll consider only my child - my sweet K.D. who lost herself when she left the confines of our home, entered school, and thus the larger world. And now, as I write about it, I understand why she writes about death. The child she once was is lost ... gone ...and never to return.

But perhaps she'll find herself in her own written word.