I don’t know what to do with this.
07-Mar-03
I have some emotions that aren’t sorting themselves out very well right now.
A friend of mine “lost” his son earlier this week.
That’s a lie. He didn’t lose him. He knows exactly where his son is. Unfortunately, that place is not at home with his brothers and sisters.
He was one-half of a set of twins. His sisters are also twins– it’s a big family. They economized with just two rounds of labor. He had cerebal palsey, but he had already completely stomped all over the odds and was more mobile, more attentive than anyone had ever expected. He and his brother are about 7, I think. His sisters are just about 2 or 3 now. He died of pneumonia on Tuesday night– I don’t know if that’s common for kids with CP or not. I don’t really know anything about this, except it sucks
His funeral is tomorrow, and I just– I just don’t know if I can go. Not only is it in the middle of the day, it’s also– gah. I think I mentioned last Fall– I suck at funerals.
When I am Queen (and this alone should be reason enough to make me Queen), there will be a law: Parents will not outlive their children. There. I have so decreed it.
Ironically, I had started the sestina when I got the news. The sestina is, so far, about a little boy, rambunctious and full of mischief and wonder, as little boys ought to be. I may change the tone, now. I don’t know. I may set it aside a bit until I can think about it again.
He’s faster than a bird or plane, in blue nylon socks
Pulled tight to his legs, a yellow
Cape fluttering behind him while he saves Captain Bunny
From the Troll Beneath the Stairs. His soda
Sits in front of the TV while he aims the fireplace poker,
Now a death-ray gun. Our hero from the pages of the comics.
His young mind absorbs nothing but those comics
Which become as real as life, as tangible as socks
As serious as a shark playing poker.
He halts, obeys the call to lunch, sips yellow
Apple juice from a tippy-mug; he secretly craves cherry soda.
Later this afternoon, he will pretend he’s a bunny.
Outside in his hutch huddles the soft-furred bunny.
Brought home at Easter, now ignored, except to change the comic
Pages that line his cage, or to dust everything with baking soda
“Because he smells,” says Mom. He has white socks
And black fur. His eyes are yellow
With hatred for the Boy known to the bunny only as The Poker.
The sestina took a dark turn there in the third paragraph– don’t know where it will go from here. I need to know this little boy better first– is he the kind of kid who’s generally a good kid, just irresponsible? Or is he the kind of kid who drives the adults around him absolutely nuts all the time? Or all of the above? Wondering wondering wondering.