Sunday was a playground day. Kids had the warm of spring on their backs but they still wanted to muck around in the winter slush by the fence. We watched them play, while sipping the first iced coffee we’d had in months, and I sang (badly) “Perfect Day.” When the fun had run its course, the clouds rolled in, but we pushed them back toward springtime and walked to get the kid a new bike.
On our route we saw the barricade, the police, and the crowd. A guy at the barricade told me an actor had died. We knew him better as another parent that on another day would be at the playground. My first thoughts were fuck and shit, and they still are. We walked away, explaining death to a 6 year old, and diverting his attention towards life. We talked bikes and vacations and soon had him in the saddle of a new bike with just enough rust and scratches on it to remove the spell that beguiles bike thieves into stealing dreams.
The bike worked well, sending a six year old speeding away from us, just out of sight. Someday it will be for real, but for now it’s just to the corner. And as he rode the whole of life was revealed, all its lights and darks. We love, always on the verge of loss, we enjoy moments of bliss and endure hours of boredom, and we live life because, death. You can be as profound as you want or you can just say fuck and shit. Please put some money in the swear jar if the six-year old heard you.