times like these
There are so many words that could be said, so many words that need to be said. They’re boiling under the surface like a school of hungry piranhas. It’s a feeding frenzy out there and I need that water to simmer right down before I can even attempt to make any sense of what has happened today and what continues to happen, on a loop, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, the news, conversations at the local café, comments overheard on the street.
When I was 8 years old, I wrote a letter to my grandparents. I wrote without punctuation, breathless, with hardly any conjunctions, matter-of-factly sticking one sentence after another like mismatched legos.
Dear Grand-ma and Grand-pa,
HI. The 9 november 1983 I got my bulletin. I got As, Bs and one C in gym. That day my teacher hade to leave because she was going to have a baby. So we sang a song to her. But I do not remember it. In the bus me and all the girls in my classe cryd because we loved her so much. Her name was HÉLÈNE DROLET. Win we left from scool we gave her a kiss and she had a big tear in each eye. That was so sad. Well less go on to some thing ells.
I know there are many kids out there today with a big tear in each eye. And it’s to them that I want to write, it’s for them that I need more time. I wonder if that 8-year-old girl can teach me a thing or two? Will she give me the pearls, one at a time, and let me string them together until I can make sense of this madness?