four walls
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Four walls. He was alone, or so he thought. But I was there watching, an omniscient observer unknown to his senses. The windows were tightly shut but it was not stifling. Rather, the air was light and the tranquillity that hung in the air seemed to lift his spirits. He picked a pencil up from the dusty vinyl flooring and sat upright on the rickety old chair. He began to write furiously and the table creaked as his weight began to lean upon it. My heart swelled with pride as I looked on in secret. He wanted to do this alone. But I couldn’t restrain myself. He told me that he had to do this. He said, “I shall write about the rays of the sun, of how it warms me in winter. I shall write about the ocean’s hand, so blue against the white grains of sand. I’ll write of the leaves of green, and the dewdrops and the morning mist.” I wept at his confident proclamation five long years ago, out of pity, but today, I wept for joy for him. He lifted his head and looked straight ahead, out of the window, right at the setting sun. It glowed a warm hue of red and orange. But he couldn’t see that. He relaxed his shoulders and set his pencil down. You see, my son was born blind.
Posted by jon at 5:54 AM
