Good Bones

 

Even though my kids are grown, I think a lot about being a parent.  I did some things right; lots of things wrong. I did my best in view of what I knew at the time.

I ran across this poem, which I love.  I am posting it in case it might resonate with others.

Good Bones, by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I've shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I'll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.  

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, 

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind 

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children.  I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, 

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones. This place could be beautiful, 

right? You could make this place beautiful.