Robin Hood

We are reading “The Chronicles of Robin Hood” by Rosemary Sutcliff in the evenings out loud before bedtime. The timing could not be more apt, though that was not the reason we opened it. It was recommended to us by my nephew who sings the praises of Ms. Sutcliff and whose titles were first offered by his beloved British English teacher who lives in infamy among our close relations as we all like to consider ourselves Anglophiles to a certain degree. And, now as we wade through the thick waters of defining a white normative culture and righting the never-ending list of wrongs done through centuries of systemic racism, I’m sure that can no longer be where we long to be. But, cottage, people. And Literature. And London.

So in these evenings when the worries and fears fight to slip into our hearts and minds and souls, we escape to Sherwood Forest with Robin and his merry men and ladies. 

Things get a little less poetic and a little more real when I think about the need for a current day Robin Hood and my longing for those deep pockets to be pillaged.