Read Online Message of Love by Jim Provenzano - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jim Provenzano
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an embarrassment that only his silent smile could soften.
My favorite had to be Kenny, who steered his motorized chair with his nub of an arm, and whose favorite phrase was, “This is amazing!” Since we both wore black-framed glasses, he took to me as a sort of role model, scooting himself wherever I went, until another counselor would corral him back.
After our group dinners, some nights Everett would lead the kids in sing-alongs. The kids weren’t the only ones who smiled at the sound of his voice.
On quiet afternoons, the crafts cabin would be nearly still except for the scratching sounds of crayons on paper. Over the next few weeks, the blank walls of our cabin became decorated with pinned-up drawings by the kids. I had never thought of myself as a teacher or even artistic, but given the context of nature, something opened up in me as the kids opened up as well.
In the middle of one of the few rainy afternoons, the activities shifted as the other counselors helped me bring out paper, crayons and magic markers. I decided to offer a primer on different kinds of trees.
Kenny declared that he would make autumn leaves, because they were “amazing!” even though it was summer, which led to another kid asking why leaves turned color and if they died. I fumbled through a kid version of carotene, anthocyanin, and the photosynthetic pigment depletion, until Alice saved me with a simpler comparison to animals shedding fur.
As I was helping Jennifer, one of the cerebral palsy kids, pick out colors for her leaf drawing, she bluntly asked me, “Are you disabled, too?”
I looked at her curious wide eyes and smiled. “You know my buddy Everett?”
“Yeah. Ebredd sings priddy.”
“Yes, he does. And my disability is, if I’m too far away from him, I can’t breathe.”
She gasped. “Really?”
“No, not really. It just feels like that sometimes.”
“Are you brothers?”
“Something like that.”
“You don’t look like brothers.”
I leaned close to her, “Can you keep a secret?” and whispered, “That’s because we’re in disguise. We’re twin unicorns from a distant galaxy.”
Her volley of giggles took on an almost goose-like honk. A few of the other kids just caught on, laughing for no reason, or at her laughter, until Alice suggested “we should all calm down,” followed by a stern glare toward me.
“ Dodecatheon .”
“Stars; shooting stars,” I answered.
Everett and I lay on a blanket in a small clearing at the edge of the campground. It wasn’t late, after nine. We had missed the nightly ghostlike firefly dance over the fields. But the kids were in bed, the other teachers and supervisors relaxing in their own cabins. We’d found a path that he could wheel over, settled down with a few beers I’d hidden in a cooler after a shopping trip in town. They were warm, but we didn’t complain. The air was also warm, a thick verdant texture we could almost taste.
“The stars are pretty,” Everett said.
“The stars are always pretty.”
“Even the dead ones.”
“That’s a morbid perspective,” I said.
I rolled over on my side, gazing at Everett’s face in the night as he looked upward, then returned my gaze.
“It’s a sad fact,” he said, softly. “Those stars, sending out that light, millions of years after their passing. You know one of the boys isn’t well. Kenny?”
“He’s ‘amazing’!”
Everett tried a grin, but failed. “He’s got some congenital thing; his bones won’t grow right. And his kidney’s fucked up. People with disabilities, we ... sometimes we don’t last as long, Reid.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s… It happens. It’s a health thing. We get sick. Our bodies don’t process things right. Urinary tract infections, respiratory problems…”
“Stop it.” I bolted up to sitting.
“I just want you to know, to face facts.” I felt his hand on my lower back, touching me where his own injury had occurred.
“I want you to know
My favorite had to be Kenny, who steered his motorized chair with his nub of an arm, and whose favorite phrase was, “This is amazing!” Since we both wore black-framed glasses, he took to me as a sort of role model, scooting himself wherever I went, until another counselor would corral him back.
After our group dinners, some nights Everett would lead the kids in sing-alongs. The kids weren’t the only ones who smiled at the sound of his voice.
On quiet afternoons, the crafts cabin would be nearly still except for the scratching sounds of crayons on paper. Over the next few weeks, the blank walls of our cabin became decorated with pinned-up drawings by the kids. I had never thought of myself as a teacher or even artistic, but given the context of nature, something opened up in me as the kids opened up as well.
In the middle of one of the few rainy afternoons, the activities shifted as the other counselors helped me bring out paper, crayons and magic markers. I decided to offer a primer on different kinds of trees.
Kenny declared that he would make autumn leaves, because they were “amazing!” even though it was summer, which led to another kid asking why leaves turned color and if they died. I fumbled through a kid version of carotene, anthocyanin, and the photosynthetic pigment depletion, until Alice saved me with a simpler comparison to animals shedding fur.
As I was helping Jennifer, one of the cerebral palsy kids, pick out colors for her leaf drawing, she bluntly asked me, “Are you disabled, too?”
I looked at her curious wide eyes and smiled. “You know my buddy Everett?”
“Yeah. Ebredd sings priddy.”
“Yes, he does. And my disability is, if I’m too far away from him, I can’t breathe.”
She gasped. “Really?”
“No, not really. It just feels like that sometimes.”
“Are you brothers?”
“Something like that.”
“You don’t look like brothers.”
I leaned close to her, “Can you keep a secret?” and whispered, “That’s because we’re in disguise. We’re twin unicorns from a distant galaxy.”
Her volley of giggles took on an almost goose-like honk. A few of the other kids just caught on, laughing for no reason, or at her laughter, until Alice suggested “we should all calm down,” followed by a stern glare toward me.
“ Dodecatheon .”
“Stars; shooting stars,” I answered.
Everett and I lay on a blanket in a small clearing at the edge of the campground. It wasn’t late, after nine. We had missed the nightly ghostlike firefly dance over the fields. But the kids were in bed, the other teachers and supervisors relaxing in their own cabins. We’d found a path that he could wheel over, settled down with a few beers I’d hidden in a cooler after a shopping trip in town. They were warm, but we didn’t complain. The air was also warm, a thick verdant texture we could almost taste.
“The stars are pretty,” Everett said.
“The stars are always pretty.”
“Even the dead ones.”
“That’s a morbid perspective,” I said.
I rolled over on my side, gazing at Everett’s face in the night as he looked upward, then returned my gaze.
“It’s a sad fact,” he said, softly. “Those stars, sending out that light, millions of years after their passing. You know one of the boys isn’t well. Kenny?”
“He’s ‘amazing’!”
Everett tried a grin, but failed. “He’s got some congenital thing; his bones won’t grow right. And his kidney’s fucked up. People with disabilities, we ... sometimes we don’t last as long, Reid.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s… It happens. It’s a health thing. We get sick. Our bodies don’t process things right. Urinary tract infections, respiratory problems…”
“Stop it.” I bolted up to sitting.
“I just want you to know, to face facts.” I felt his hand on my lower back, touching me where his own injury had occurred.
“I want you to know
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