The Broken Toy
This is the sad and sordid tale of a broken toy. The poor toy never got a fair shot. It wasn’t broken in the line of duty. It will not be buried with full honors. It didn’t serve long enough to receive a pension. It will not be spoken of in hushed tones of reverence. It will not be remembered as a martyr for a higher purpose.
No, this toy will be one of the many toys that for good or for bad never get their shot. This toy wasn’t broken by the child for whom it was intended. It’s short life was snuffed out by the an inquisitive toddler. A little sister who desired nothing more than to be like her big brother mishandled it.
It wasn’t malicious. In the court of law you wouldn’t call it premeditated, it is a case of Toyslaughter. If only it had been Stretch Armstrong. Stretch would have handled the sister. Stretch would have laughed at the rough treatment, he was made to just go with the flow.
As a father I felt badly. My daughter didn’t mean to break it, but that didn’t make her brother feel less angry. At six it is hard to just accept that sometimes things happen. It took a little time but we worked it out.
As the older brother of many sisters I felt badly as well. I remember similar moments. I can picture more than one occasion in which my sisters aggravated me. Now I look back and smile, but at the time it was no so easy.
In the end he asked if I could fix the broken toy and found other things to occupy his time. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that this toy is beyond repair. There is no hospice, no second chance. Just time to put it in the box and say Kaddish. Sometimes things happen.