Stop The Bad Guys
Wisdom from the moths of babes
My son, Evan was 4 years old. Wearing full cowboy attire. White hat, pearl handled cap gun. I asked him, “What are you going to do with all those guns?”
“Stop bad guys.” he said proudly.
Thinking I could trip him up a little. “Why do you want to stop bad guys?”
“Because they do bad stuff and hurt people.”
Then I asked, “Where do bad guys come from?”
Taking only a beat to ponder he answered, “Bad parents.”
After I picked myself up off the floor, I started his college fund. I want to be a good guy.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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