Through the Window

Through the Window

I sat looking through my window and watched as the little boy pulled
himself laboriously up the hill. His gnarled and twisted legs, each
with a manic jester-like will of its own, pulling in the opposite
direction, contorting and jerking like a puppet at the hands of
an
inexperienced child. Each step a measured and controlled exercise of
endurance. He pulled out his crutches, thrust them defiantly into
position, and then waited resignedly until his palsied legs had
finished their dance of dementia,and had lurched themselves forward
that measly twelve inches.

I watched as a tear of perspiration, rolled it's course down his grim,
set, determined face. He took his hand from the crutch and wiped
frustratedly at the tell tale clue to his pain and suffering, revealing
a brief glimpse at a hand chaffed and calloused, and I thought
of the times when this hand had opened and Bled, for the plight of the
twisted body.

His Mother tall and resolute walked slowly by his side, never once
guiding, never once taking the child's burden for her own, never once
revealing to the world her heart, which like her son's broken body was
contorted and palsied. She feined not to see the cold stares
of passers by, the pity loaded in their eyes for the struggling little
boy, and then the distaste as they watched a mother who would not aid
her suffering offspring.

He took that final step to the summit of the hill, his face now red
and moist with the sweat of his labour. He pulled harshly, greedily at
a restorative draught of cool fresh air, and his face broke into a grin
of triumph. The road to school was now an easy one, and that first
battle of the day was won.

His mother let her hand slip to her son's head, and just lightly
stroked his moist locks. She didn't fall to her knees and load him into
her arms offering him praise and glory. She didn't gush words of
effusive patronisation. Mother and child looked at each other, the
little lad no more than chuffed, but the mother in that small glance
gave her son all the
love and Pride he would ever need to get through his struggles.

I turned and wheeled myself away from the window and remembered the
days when I too had to fight the world for just the smallest triumphs
of independence.