Texas Tears
A Lori Tale
Sitting in my study, watching the sun fall out of the sky, my eyes are wet and swollen. It isn’t the beauty before me, the magic of sunset, but forced to leave the front room where the TV news is covering the abnormal weather conditions in Texas, telling of families struggling to keep warm in homes with burst water pipes and no electricity. The state, being pummeled by storms and power outages; parents desperate in their efforts to keep their children warm.
Mr. Harry…are you there?
Those of you who know me, know Lori. A child muse with porcelain features, red ringlets, and a slight cast in one eye. Indeed, Lori is more than imagined, she keeps me sane, happy, and yes, to those of you who have children, who will understand, there are times I could just eat her up.
Coming, Lori.
I leave my desk and walk across the garden to the iron gate, helping her push it open wide.
Mr. Harry, I was calling and calling.
I’m sorry, Lori. I was deep in thought.
Were you crying, Mr. Harry? Your eyes look so sad, she said, tugging at my jacket to make me look down at her.
When does this start, this tugging at our clothes to get our attention? I look down at her, wanting to answer her unblinking stare. I cannot count the times I tugged at dad’s clothes, mum’s apron, needing just a little more. It didn’t matter what, just a little more.
Mr. Harry, you know why I’m here, don’t you?
I think so, Lori.
Mr. Harry, you saw a child looking out from a frosted window. You thought of me. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Harry.
I had watched the news on television, saw a child wearing her father’s overcoat, looking out the window. To me, well, she was looking to see when summer was coming. Children are so fragile, cherished, mostly. We want to keep them from suffering. But what if we cannot make them that hot chocolate drink on wintry mornings, or when our arms are not warm enough to send them to sleep.
Yes, Lori. You always come when I need you.
I need you, too, Mr. Harry. Grownups don’t understand that change is coming. We need them to understand, Mr. Harry. We need them to be prepared for our sakes. We need them to be open to change. Because, Mr. Harry, change begins at the edges. Change won’t ask permission. We need grownups to be aware of change, accept the world is changing, and that the weather is revolutionary. We children, Mr. Harry, we can’t always be looking to summer, we can’t always feel safe folded into our father’s big coats, or our mother’s arms. I know you like doing small things for me, Mr. Harry. Parents love doing the small things for us children, small things that give us great joy in life, pushed on a swing, chased on grass, bought ice creams, tucked in at night after a story, but sometimes, Mr. Harry, it’s not about the small things, it is about changing the world in big ways.
Great change doesn’t come with an endorsement. It never has and never will.
Mr. Harry, our voices are so small. This evening my voice is sad, like your eyes. Grownups need to make things better. They need to. They must. Please do something, Mr. Harry.
Parents sit in their chairs, children in their laps, freezing. Why are we waiting for permission to change things? A child is looking out of a window, looking for summer, hoping for change. If we want to keep our children’s feet dancing across the grass, snug in snow boots, warm in arms, feeding on sticky buns, innocent of everything we must do for them. Will we instead fail them?
