Song for Dead Children

I didn't let myself read anything about the massacre at the children's school in Pakistan today until an hour ago, because, well...because I had crap to do. And that truism that one mother's loss is every mother's loss is real to me, and so I didn't want to know anything yet. But after I finally got the last child asleep I read. One thing I read was this poem:

Song for Dead Children

We set great wreaths of brightness on the graves of the passionate
who required tribute of hot July flowers—
for you, O brittle-hearted, we bring offering
remembering how your wrists were thin and your delicate bones
not yet braced for conquering.

The sharp cries of ghost-boys are keen above the meadows,
and little girls continue graceful and wondering.
Flickering evening on the lakes recalls those young
heirs whose developing years have sunk to earth,
their strength not tested, their praise unsung.

Weave grasses for their childhood—who will never see
love or disaster or take sides against decay
balancing the choices of maturity.
Silent and coffined in silence while we pass
loud in defiance of death, the helpless lie.

Muriel Rukeyser

And I cried, and cried. And then I got in the shower and cried some more. Because, this is real. This is the world I can't escape and can't save my children from. A world where mothers who would have died to protect their babies don't even get the chance. They are just left to bury their hearts in the ground and walk home with empty arms. Arms that once held their warm child's laughing face.

I also read Anne Lammot's post today where she wrote:

"...he said that 80% of life was just showing up, and it's the truest thing I know."

and

"So yes, I have hope. It is not based on circumstances. It's based on paying attention."

and

"Emily Dickinson said that hope causes the Good to reveal itself."

I'm about to turn this computer off and go lay down next to the baby I'm raising in this world of pain, and those are really the only things I have to offer her when we wake up together tomorrow. I will show up, and I will offer her hope in the form of paying attention. Hope in the form of feeding her when she's hungry, reading her stories when she asks, and putting her to bed when she's tired. And I'm going to hang Emily Dickenson's words on my fridge to remind me to tell her the reason that I do all those things for her, and the reason that I cry with those who've lost someone who was their Good.