Finish This!

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age

The child is grown, and puts away childish things

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies

Nobody that cares, that is. Many relatives of course

Die, whom one never has seen or has seen in a while,

And they gave one blanket in a pink-and-green striped bag, or a ball,

And went away and cannot really be said to have loved at all.

And suddenly die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,

And their cold fur is suddenly all in motion

With fleas that ono never knew were there,

Black and brown, knowing all there is to know, going off into the living world.

You fetch a box, but it's much too small, because she won't curl up now:

So you find a bigger box, and put her in the yard, and cry.

But you do not wake up a month from then, two months,

A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night,

And weep with your tears in your mouth, and say Oh, Lord! Oh lord!

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,-mothers and children don't die.

And if you have said, "For heavens sake, must you always be kissing a person?"

Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop hitting on the window with your hand!"

Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having fun,

Is plenty of time to say, "I'm the mother, Mother."

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither stopped nor listened;