Both of us were frightened
by tales of blindness,
rare,
but if it occurred at all,
likely permanent.
We were stoic as we watched
several small vials fill with blood.
We hurried here and there,
always stopping to hold elevator doors,
to offer smiles,
reassurances where we could.
Having not now,
perhaps never asking him
to give up his personhood,
I reminded all of these geniuses
that my boy, despite his nuances
and need for simpler explanations, was indeed,
a man,
a maker of his own decisions,
and very curious,
in his own way,
as to how it all worked.

(He studies his x-rays with a seriousness
that astonished us all.)  

In the end, his signatures graced all the paperwork,
his mind was clear, focused,
despite some nerves.

But, my thoughts came back
to that bald little boy in the Radiology waiting-room.


How would his story end?  

There wasn’t any doubt in my mind
that he was at least seven years old.
No boy of that age chooses a slick pate like his,
even in the summertime.
No, that was cancer’s gift
and his momma’s curse.

We’ve endured
Cholesteatoma and a curved spine.
An aortic anomaly corrected almost 5 years ago.
He’s run a gauntlet,
no lie.
We’ve seen him seize,
called for ambulance assistance.

But, I’d never doubted that he’d get an 8th birthday.  
Not once.

(Not like her, the bald boy’s momma.)

The boy,
not mine,
the one in Radiology,
he looked tired.
His mother looked exhausted,
but spoke to the receptionist of her little one’s excitement,
looking forward to picking his older brother up
from school on the last day.

It signaled an ending
to my eavesdropping...

My own son came back
from his session of x-rays.

The bald little boy and his momma
followed the nurse back toward
their own appointment.

We gathered our belongings,
turned to leave.

A weak smile caught my eye.
The small fingers waved.

I waved back.

*
-JBClaywell
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