THE WISDOM OF A CHILD

I am Aunt Vicki to my oldest friend’s children, who are all now hovering on 50 years of age. Seems impossible, and more impossible that their children are now getting their driver’s licenses.

I recently visited their mother and she handed me a short essay her daughter, Alison, had written in college.

Alison’s 5-year old answer to helping her newly widowed great aunt is precious and precocious. Her insight? Way beyond her years considering she had yet to experience deep loss herself.

A Childhood Memory

Allison Oshinsky

It is said that nothing is seen more purely and simply than through the eyes of a child. At times it seems the more we know, the less we understand. The answers that were once black and white are lost between shades of gray. But is innocence lost maturity gained?

When I was a child, our family would always spend part of the summer at a resort in upstate New York. The day camps and lake activities were filled with children while the adults and senior citizens attended the many concerts and lectures held in the old symphony hall. For our family it was more than a vacation; it was a reunion. It was a place where the east coast relatives joined with the west coast relatives. It has been this way for several generations.

My great aunt Sylvia, whom I referred to as “Silverware,” had been coming with her husband for over fifty years. This year, however, she would be coming alone. Uncle Leonard had passed away that winter. All the children were told how hard it would be for Sylvia and not to bring up the subject of her husband. Although she was constantly surrounded by family, the subject of Uncle Leonard quickly became taboo for adults and children alike. One afternoon, during a party, I sat down next to Sylvia for a chat.

“Hi Silverware, what are you doing?”

“Knitting,” She replied. “Would you like to try?”

“No, thanks.  Silverware, are you very lonely?” I innocently inquired.

“Yes Alison, I am very lonely.”

“Well,” I said. “You won’t be lonely if I read you a story.”

The fact that I was only five years old and couldn’t read never entered my mind. I picked up the nearest magazine and began reading the pictures. At the time I didn’t understand the silent tears that rolled down Sylvia’s cheeks, or the way she kept stroking my hair. But now I realize why. Sometimes we think that avoiding a painful or difficult subject will make it disappear. It wasn’t that my family didn’t love Sylvia, they just didn’t want to bring out painful emotions. But dealing with and accepting those emotions are how we move on in our lives. Since I was a child, I only saw that my “Aunt Silverware” was unhappy, and I only asked what seemed an obvious question.

But as I mature, situations become more complex. What was once an easy choice now has many facets and consequences. As an adult, I must accept these shades of gray and determine what is appropriate. But I still miss the days of childhood innocence.