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GROUNDED
When I was little, too little to run outside with the big kids, I stood on our hand-me-down sofa and smudged the glass with my face and fists and watched those that pedaled past and skipped and roamed free-range and wailed, "Kids, Mommy! Kids!" I was hard to contain, shedding my diaper in the middle of the inky dark and climbing my crib and slipping outside to explore and find my cat and play in the grass and when the neighbor brought me home to my mom's fear and worry, I held her chin and pointed skyward and said, "Stars, Mommy! See?" Now I am still grateful for glass partitions waving at distant stars far from the woman who tried to contain me, to contain everything I once wanted to escape. I am grounded. At school, we wrote.
Among my friends and in my social media feed: Offers to help one another. Care and concern for the most at risk among us. Resources for folks at home, for teachers seeking creative plans, for shows to watch and skills to learn and places to digitally visit. Gentle reminders. Humor. Concern for the people who lack resources. Suggestions for how to help if we are in a position that we can. Prayers and positivity. Encouragement to support local businesses and artists. Creative ways to connect. Gratitude for those who are called to work harder, the responders. Hi, America. |
Elizabeth wheeler
Story collector. Archives
October 2021
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