So, I've been out and about. Meeting friends. Driving to a school, a repository of oldsters. Obsessed, here at home, w/ a painting. So I neglected to write, never got around to writing about the notable souls who came into the world on the 12th of December, Frank Sinatra, for instance, that sturdy, angel-gifted & golden-voiced, troubled survivor of anti-Italian loathing here in America in the early 20th century. And bespectacled abolitionist Wm. Lloyd Garrison (in 1805).
Or those who were born on December 13. A lost friend. Poor, clever & charming, high-maintenance Mary Todd Lincoln, with her bottomless grief. She shared a birthday w/ Sergeant Alvin York; did you know that? That back-country fellow whose conscience and strength was tested in the vile, dreadful, and [worst of all needless 'Great War.'
But today, the 14th of December, marks the day that a lovely niece of mine was born, 22 years ago, the child of my little sister. I spent part of it, taking paintings down from my walls, carrying them to a local gallery. Hoping that people would see them and think 'one of our neighbors draws pretty pictures.' And it marks the day that many a little sister and brother were blasted out of this world by yet another troubled young man.
What good, what fancied wrong was redeemed - what satisfaction did he gain from those vile murders?
And somewhere, above, below, & beyond this wondrous, horrid world, I have to believe that his immortal knowing will be confronted with the depth of what he has done.
Once upon a time, that murderer was a beautiful baby boy. And here, at Christmastime, we're left to ponder and grieve.