Pick Me Up

My favourite form of escapism is a day in the city

I sit back and watch the people around me, and write

It's been a few weeks since I've had this indulgence.

I often watch the children, with their families in the park


Two families sat, opposite ends of the park, enjoying the day

Each family had a young boy, about three or four years old

The boys ran around constantly, chasing birds from the grass

I watched as one boy fell, flat on his face, his mother watched, smiling

There was a brief look of shock on the boy's face, then he picked himself up!

Not once but several times the boy fell, each time picking himself up.

The other boy fell too, flat on his face, his mother to her feet before the dust settled

The tears streamed down the young boy's face as he lay there on the ground

His mother picked him up into her arms, cuddling him and soothing him with words

Not once but several times the boy fell, each time waiting for his mother to pick him up!


Most of my life I've been like the first boy, picking myself up and dealing with life

Of course there are times when I've needed help, gratefully accepted it and moved on

Why is it then that so many people in my life have been just like that second boy

People who believe the world is against them, unable to pick themselves up

They lay on the ground crying, just waiting for someone to lean down to them yet again

People who never knew they could pick themselves up and feel some pride in doing so