Hand Wash Cold

Slip transported me
to a time when my son was
newly diagnosed.

Karen and Tanya,
thank you for sharing yourselves,
for sharing your truths.

Soft brush of finger
transforms ten tickling feet
to an armored ball.

"But he's unable
to recall faces and names
when shown a picture."

"Vocabulary
tests at a high school level,
as does his reading."

"However, he can't
answer some simple questions
on what he has read."

"I've never seen scores
like this in math -- not ever --
in all my years here!"

"Not just off the charts,
but every calculation
is done in his head!"

"But he can't always
find ways to synthesize and
apply that knowledge."

Is he quite gifted
or severely behind peers?
A little of both.

As they shuffle out,
I weave my way to the front
and wait, shakily.

I want to say... be...
something special, but I squeak,
"Thanks," and disappear.

One by one she drops,
into the paper wrapped can,
dime on dime. Plink. Plink.

"Some kids have cancer,
and it's bad that they are sick.
I want to help them."

The pages are creased.
Pressed by your own hand, sealed, sent
hand by hand, to me.

And you say please. Please.
Write. Send me something you touched.
E-mail's so sterile.