So often we fail to appreciate what we have until it is gone. We vow to cease being distracted from things that really matter. We vow to forswear our insularity. This lasts a little while, maybe.
This morning I saw the tower shake. I saw him fall. It was not pretty. His youthful plasticity was not there to save him. Caution for younger and sensitive viewers: the image which follows graphically depicts fatal injuries.
It was the sort of thing that doctors shake their heads at – no fixing that. Right through the heart, the ribs, torso split in two.
Little Dragon was born in San Francisco and flew here to Massachusetts when but an infant. He spent the most of his days in happy simplicity of Wood Block City.
He was a carefree youngster, given to perching on wood blocks
though sometimes a book would do, especially if he wanted to take a rest.
That striped tower arrived in the city after he was born. He took a fancy to perching upon it, though it was a little small for his feet and a little shaky, as compared to the other wood blocks. Just the other morning – I wish I had a picture – he was perched atop this tower as the sun rose and cast a gentle and golden light on his mysterious dragon smile. He looked very happy, clearly not realizing that this would become his tower of Doom.
Some say that everything should be understood as an Act of God, but this morning there can be no question that there was an Act of Dog. The dog, attempting to impress upon me the need to take a walk in the woods, bumped the table. I saw the tower shake. I saw him fall.