A MOTHER SEES WHAT SHE WANTS TO SEE
Jack was seven, thin and wiry with a larger than usual head. He had seen doctors, many doctors, and they all agreed. His head was perfectly normal, just bigger than normal. “But that’s not normal!” his mother insisted. “It’s all relative,” they would say nodding their heads in unison and trying to comfort her, but not. She worried endlessly about poor Jack’s huge head.
Every time Jack left the house, his mother would fear for him, knowing how cruel kids can be. She’d watch as he’d go skipping down the dirt trail that led from their front door to a small park at the end of the road, and wince as he narrowly missed a low hanging branch. Jack’s disability didn’t seem to bother him. He was convinced his head was a sign, a sign that he was special. Other kids teased him but Jack didn’t care. He’d just smile and say nothing. The kids, failing to get the reaction they wanted, would move on, seeking out more sensitive physically deformed victims to taunt.
Jack would sit alone in the park, whistling away through blades of grass. He loved to do this and was very adept at it. His whistling wasn’t shrill at all, but melodic and enchanting. It would attract robins and blue jays and sparrows and hummingbirds and they’d flutter around him listening till they felt safe, then gently land atop his watermelon-sized head, hypnotized by the music. Jack would carefully reach up and cradle the birds one by one in his small boyish hands, squeezing their feathery bodies till colorful birdy guts spilled from their mouths. Oh, how he delighted in this.
“Time for supper,” his mother called. After all, a growing boy’s got to eat. She’d sadly watch as her sweet, gigantean headed child ran wobbling toward the house. She fretted about all the problems having such a monster-like head would bring him. “Well… maybe one day,” she sighed, “He’ll grow into it.”
Jack was seven, thin and wiry with a larger than usual head. He had seen doctors, many doctors, and they all agreed. His head was perfectly normal, just bigger than normal. “But that’s not normal!” his mother insisted. “It’s all relative,” they would say nodding their heads in unison and trying to comfort her, but not. She worried endlessly about poor Jack’s huge head.
Every time Jack left the house, his mother would fear for him, knowing how cruel kids can be. She’d watch as he’d go skipping down the dirt trail that led from their front door to a small park at the end of the road, and wince as he narrowly missed a low hanging branch. Jack’s disability didn’t seem to bother him. He was convinced his head was a sign, a sign that he was special. Other kids teased him but Jack didn’t care. He’d just smile and say nothing. The kids, failing to get the reaction they wanted, would move on, seeking out more sensitive physically deformed victims to taunt.
Jack would sit alone in the park, whistling away through blades of grass. He loved to do this and was very adept at it. His whistling wasn’t shrill at all, but melodic and enchanting. It would attract robins and blue jays and sparrows and hummingbirds and they’d flutter around him listening till they felt safe, then gently land atop his watermelon-sized head, hypnotized by the music. Jack would carefully reach up and cradle the birds one by one in his small boyish hands, squeezing their feathery bodies till colorful birdy guts spilled from their mouths. Oh, how he delighted in this.
“Time for supper,” his mother called. After all, a growing boy’s got to eat. She’d sadly watch as her sweet, gigantean headed child ran wobbling toward the house. She fretted about all the problems having such a monster-like head would bring him. “Well… maybe one day,” she sighed, “He’ll grow into it.”
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