Hyde Park 14.05

Bending down, with their hands out, the children trick the squirrel. It takes a certain type of domesticated squirrel to be fooled this way. A country squirrel, perhaps would not be lured by my children, crouching now, still and still waiting as the squirrel scampers towards them. Rising on its hindlegs it displays its thick white underbelly, the grey fur lining its legs. It looks warm, deceptively so maybe, as it pushes its nose into Avery’s hand. Finding it empty it pulls its nose away, blithely springs over to Estella, who is trying not to laugh as the squirrel, fooled once is still game or hungry or greedy, examines her palm. And then it is off, away over to the tourists, better prepared than we are, who give it a nut it holds delicately between two paws as it nibbles. As we walk, the children do the same thing to every squirrel, fooling each, if just for a second.

In the distance, overhead, helicopters, seeming to defy some law of motion as they stay static in the air. I thought of taking the children to the march, but they are afraid of crowds and I am afraid, suddenly, of the luxury of all of it. Of being able to switch the news off, of being able to avoid conflict, of waking and hugging them and knowing by and large I can keep them safe and none of it is fair. We have more than our fair share of luck, in the most literal sense. It would be a relief maybe to give some of it away. And then I hear Estella laugh, the big belly laughing way that’s maybe only possible when you’re a child, when you have a vague idea what the helicopters and the flags are doing, but only that. No images to attach them too. No death tolls. No daily readjustments to the numbers. And the thing is, I know right there, I wouldn’t give my luck away, which makes me a helpless piece of shit, standing there, thanking things I don’t even believe in for how lucky I am. And how hard it is to hold this world that is mine exists at the same time as other worlds are blowing to pieces and I’m standing watching a fucking squirrel, listening to my children laugh, as if both are the most delightful thing in the world and the worst part of it is they are. It is the most incredible thing to stand in a park, watching a squirrel, listening to your children, knowing later you will go home to a warm house and it is the worst thing in the world to know in theory you’d trade it, but the most likely thing is, you’d fight, tooth, nail, hand, claw, to save it. To save them.

(I am typing these the day after the fact. So this might appear to be set in the future, when really it happened yesterday. Also, my children’s names have been changed to match the names in The Last Days, and also because no one needs to know them.)