T is for Titus – who flew into bits
The moment their first child is born, a parent is born. Before the birth a whole person existed, but not a parent. A parent who will creep up to the crib and check that that the infant still breathes, a parent who will lie awake till 3am counting in the teenagers as they return. In those early almost sleepless nights of parenthood, the dreams that come are splattered with images of baby on a high window ledge, baby in a rock pool as the tide advances, baby in a dark forest as the wolves draw near.
The brilliant Edward Gorey knew this when he wrote the Gashlycrumb Tinies, he understood how when the silence lasts too long we imagine George smothered under a rug, or Olive run through with an awl, or Maud swept out to sea. We grow up to know that the world is full of danger, and our imaginations take us to darker worlds every day. So even when we are wrinkled with age, our children are grown, and parents themselves, we still fear that they might be Titus who flew into bits.
Of course the odds are that everything will be alright, Zillah won’t drink too much gin, Xerxes won’t be devoured by mice. So relax and enjoy life.
(Note: I read this morning that a giant astroid might, or might not, collide with earth on my 65th birthday, creating an explosion 50 times greater than the most powerful nuclear bomb, so don’t bother sending a card)
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