Listen, I know that folks have returned to their own lives, while we continue to move shakily through twilight here. Dont feel obligated to pause, read, like, comment; you all have been enormously generous with your time & empathy already. I have just a couple more things to post, and this is one of them: the essay I published in 2011 in the Lives column on the last page of THE NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE. It occurred to Lily Samuel, our 22-year-old daughter, to read it at her brothers funeral, and she did, beautifully, as the rains fell and six hundred people continued crying. Id not re-read the essay in several years and was stunned at its predictions. Fisseha would like to pursue a soccer career, Id written about him when he was 16 in words now read aloud by Lily above the roar of the rainfall and wailing, but my husband and I worry about the scrutiny, about having his magic powers clocked and measured. What if he’s good but not good enough? Even more presciently, Id written about the professional soccer coaches scrutiny: More than anything, I did not want this to hurt his feelings. Finally--inaccurately--I reached the wrong conclusion: that this magical boy tapped into such joy when he ran and played, theyd never demoralize him.
Posted on: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 04:07:12 +0000
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