Dear Big Ones,
You know how it is.
Exiled to our various parsecs, homes transitioned from living quarters to satellites. The pings flash at all hours of the night, messages from so far away that we think it’ll take light years to reach one another.
I know, I know, the traffic is bad and the store does not have the THINGS. You’ve been at this for half a year and nothing, nothing is right. You were fed up with the fires and noise yesterday and today they burn brighter, louder, somehow more directed at you. That and the insipid Other is fucking everything up.
But wait –
Remember how the sun creeps across the sky, and the incremental growth of jasmine. Remember too that our space has been collapsed. We are Algiers Point and Gentilly. We are Carrollton, California, and Jackson, folded together into an ice so thin that it barely holds a breath.
So yes you are there, in your satellite, and I am there too.
I hear you: your frustrated quips, your impatience with the smalls, your WOULD YOU SHUT UP shouted from your adult lungs, bouncing relay to relay until within a second your anger is a long crack across all the ice.
I also hear your Creole hymns (Bondye bon – more than a background to break my heart) while I in turn pray your small’s internet can stay stable enough to answer just a few. more. questions on the standardized test.
At peak performance I can see too: the smalls lined up like earth-colored vases in their tiny borders trying, trying, trying with a patience you long ago misplaced. Where did you put it? If you took a pilgrimage back home, unpacked the Transformers and Legos your own aging mother has kept, would it be there, crumpled alongside the best book report you ever penned?
When your smalls go to sleep tonight, smile at them. I don’t care if it hurts. Do it anyway. Do it and seed peace in your own heart so that maybe, come morning, you can reflect a fraction of the hope the your smalls are showing me.