These are not my children.
(source)
I don’t have kids. And I don’t plan to have kids for a very very very very very very long time. If ever. I kinda just want to adopt one. Whatever. Anyhoo. The point is, I probably maybe possibly very well may have small human things that receive my maternal care and eternal love and whatnot. Kids. And I’m going to want some things for them.
The thought just randomly crossed my mind this morning, while I was sitting in a cafe and staring out the window and at my cell phone screen in turns, trying to keep the loneliness away.
Aaaanyhoo. All of a sudden, thought was just there: What am I going to want for my kids?
And right on the heels of that question came a torrential flow of answers that I hadn’t even known I’d stored anywhere in my brain.
I mean, sure, I’m basically a hippie, and looking at this list, these are all things that I’d want for myself, too. But isn’t that kind of part of the point?
Here. Let me just tell you what surfaced in my brain as the important things. Here is what I want for my kids:
Piles of leaves to jump in.
Hills covered in green grass to tumble down.
Deep, dense forests to wander through.
Lakes to go swimming in.
Rocky beaches with lots of tide pools to explore.
Burning blue skies with the occasional puffy white cloud to imagine funny shapes in.
Tall mountains and deep caverns and cliffs doused in the spray of the ocean.
Deserts to find the hidden spaces of.
Lightning bugs to chase in July and butterflies to watch in August, bees to know the bumble buzzing of and birds whose songs will wake them up in the morning.
Sunshine. Rain. Snow. Maybe even a couple of hailstorms.
Sprawling countryside unbroken by sidewalks.
Sidewalks and concrete that have become bounded by green spaces.
Respect and reverence and raucous laughter.
Tears, of multiple kinds.
The strengthening of hardwood that still sways in the wind.
Fire light.
The birth and death of a spinning cosmos as a concept grown behind their blinking eyes.
Love.
If nothing else, love.
Quill Aquiver 