part of a mid-term...

in communications i class we had to write a couple short essays in class as our mid-term. i present to you, in conjunction with the last post (go quick and read it now) one half of my comm i mid-term:

the boy is about 7, lithe, with dusky skin. his earnest eyes hide behind lopsided glasses that match his lopsided grin.

he is excited as he watches his older brother play video games, and emits noises that are the sonic equivalent of shards of broken glass in my brain pan.

this skinny boy with the overdeveloped musculature used to fit in the palms of both my upturned hands like water scooped from a stream.

"daddy! daddy! loo' what [no. 1] is doon, daddy!"

"i see, buddy."

for reasons beyond my ken, he needs this constant reassurance; this sense of belonging. perhaps it stems from the four months he spent lying in hospital beds with only limited physical contact, most of which was to change iv's and bandages.

he sprawled there like a baby doll-cum-mad-scientist's experiment, tubes and monitors and gadgets encroaching upon his existence like the villain of bad 50's sci-fi movies.

and life was a nightmare for each member of his little close-knit family for these hellish four months.

you would never guess it today, however, from his ear-piercing sound-effects and the enthusiastic way he jumps up and down, his eyes intent on the screen as if he was the one playing the game.

you would never know he was dead for a full minute, flatlining like the special guest star's character at the end of an "er" episode while a battery of nurses scrambled for narcan, paddles, the crash cart.

you might guess something is not quite right from the delayed speech patterns; the way it takes him a little longer to formulate a sentence.

but, after observing his energy, his joy, and his zest for life as he dances from one foot to another and waves his arms over his head like a lottery winner, you would never be tempted to call him "dumb" or "stupid" or even "retarded."

and you would never guess he started off life being nothing more than a double-handful of his own mother and father's heart.

darth sardonic