He can’t always walk well by himself; he's never out of earshot and if he's not in our hands, he's within our reach. His balance is poor, his vision, perhaps, is worse, his bones are thin and he’s prone to careen. He can’t be left on his own for a spell or he’s liable to fall and get hurt, and his fits, though mostly foreseen, can strike any time at all. He can’t push a toy truck or stack wooden blocks, can’t scribble or scrawl or catch a ball or kick one with his feet. He can’t ride a bike or mount a trike, can’t eat with a spoon or drink independently from an open cup. He tosses his sippy on the floor like a tot, and drops like a stone when he’s had enough. He can’t put on clothes or soap up in the bath, can’t brush his teeth, tie his shoes or button his shirt. He can't play games or sports or whistle a tune, he can't run down the street, hop or jump rope. He can’t speak a word or point to what hurts, can't wave goodbye or greet new folks. He can’t wade in a pond, swim in a pool or climb in the trees, can’t read a book or sit and just watch t.v. He can’t open most doors or climb stairs alone, make any friends, or ride safe in a boat. He can't peel fruit, open bags, pour milk, pick flowers, tell time, write his name, dance a jig, play a flute. He can’t pull up his covers at night, can’t tell us his dreams, can’t wish on a star or play make believe. He lives in the moment, and for all I know, he doesn't know hope. And though he hasn't a clue about most of this world, I just wish he felt better more of the time, wish we could know some of his thoughts.
|Photo by Michael Kolster|