The booby trap.

As our tradition goes, Sabbath evening found me and the family at the farm with the in-laws. Awesome people, still dealing with the loss of their first son. I sat with dad and talked for quite some time. Our conversation sparked the memory of a poem dad had memorized as a child. So on to Google.com we went to see if we could find it. Sure enough there it was. Dad read the poem aloud. All was well till the last verse, where the tears surfaced. As dad finished the last words of the poem, he commented, through the tears, "That was a booby trap."

With a loss so deep in the family, there are many booby traps. The tears of another become a booby trap. Well meaning people calling on the phone asking how you're getting along in dealing with the loss. The visitors who continue to bring up the subject of the death. The hymns at church, just to name a few. Dad often says to me, "I wish they would just stop calling. Just let us heal a bit."

I wish there were signs along the way that said, "Beware! Emotional Booby Trap Ahead!" "OK, we'll steer clear of that one." But no such luck. The memories are like little computer viruses. They seek up on you when you least expect them. Sometimes even during a happy moment. I guess it just boils down to choice. Choosing to savour the precious memories, and choosing to keep the good memories always at the ready. And, when you step into one, choosing to appreciate the feelings even if they are a booby trap. Feelings mean you are alive, and feelings prove we all are part of the human family.

So, read on dear reader. Enjoy the poem. Hopefully for you it is not a booby trap, but an encouragement and a reminder of just how precious the time is that we have with our young ones.

The Children's Hour
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!