Monday, January 12, 2009
Yesterday we played cards, smiled, laughed, held hands, smelled hands, read books, colored, chewed gum, shared a snack, took a car ride, hugged. Yesterday, for two hours and change, I forgot everything in the world but you. I love you so much and am unable to help you out of your seemingly sad existence. Some people say you are happier than I imagine, because your mind works on a different plane. I am thankful for a certain understanding you must have with God and nature and yourself, an understanding which keeps you here, keeps you from leaving the world. For this I am thankful. Because I hold out for a time when a miracle happens. That's a day when I know how to really help you, or someone else does, and you know how to be helped. You know how to communicate fully in this lovely time I'm dreaming of. You never bite yourself or bang your head again. You and I discuss everything under the sun. You stop asking for another car ride all the time. I stop crying on the way home from our visits. I take you home with me, to stay. We cook together and fold laundry. We watch corny sitcoms and play Scrabble. We stand in line at the post office and we are peaceful. We are healed.