I slipped yesterday.
In a conversation with my granddaughters’ maternal grandmother about birthdays, I slipped.
“I can never forget your birthday,” I said to this wonderful woman, “since it’s the same day JFK was killed.”
Uh-oh. Before I could even wish the words back into my mouth, my 6-year old granddaughter absorbed them.
“Who’s JFK?,” she asked her mother, a Stanford-educated college professor & archeologist, sitting next to her on the couch. “Why was he killed?”
Calmly, my daughter-in-law explained who, and what, to this extraordinarily perceptive little girl. “He was killed by a bad man,” she said.
“But, why?” the 6-year old pressed.
“Because sometimes, bad people just do bad things,” her sensitive Mom said.
My granddaughter sighed: “I just wish there were no bad guys.”
“Me, too,” I said to this special 6-year old, wishing life could only be as beautiful as she sees it, all the time and forever.