One of the many reasons I love my kids
Yesterday was my youngest’s birthday. He is now old. A European born cousin once described her daughter as “Teaching retired children.” Yes, our cousin misspoke and meant retarded. But in the warped lexicon of our family, “retired children” have come to mean old, former children. Given that usage, I am now the mother of retired children. My youngest is now a retired child.
We are now beginning to talk about breaking up my mother’s apartment. We have been thinking about which family members want which objects so we can distribute things fairly.
My parents had a fairly large art collection. I think partially as their own reaction to the Holocaust, and partially because black and white etchings and lithographs were more affordable they have a large collection of very dark art. There are lots of pieces that depict the European Jewish world before the Holocaust and others that either obliquely or directly explore the Holocaust.
I asked my kids if they were objects from my mother’s house that they wanted. One of them asked, “ You mean the scary art?” Before long, they began acting out several pieces from my parents art collection.
I admire their power of observation.
If you have been in either the Quincy house or the Brookline apartment you may recognize the art works my kids are depicting.
There is one oil of people dancing in the woods.
This is how my kids deal with grief. This is how they comfort me.