When the police officer checked for a pulse at her neck, he didn’t say: “She’s alive.” He said: “She’s not dead.” Either way being business as usual from the looks of things. I don’t remember the name of the town. North Carolina, at any rate. Middle of the night; the bus terminal where all passengers stranded by late arrivals and no-show connections sit, wait, or OD in the washrooms.
The connection to a eight-year-old’s bellyaching yesterday: not obvious. Brain connections can be as haphazard and surprising as bus terminals at three am. And yet.
Clinging to his mamma like a newborn chimp. Mamma losing one of her shiny new bling-bling earrings. (Non, Madame, so sorry, no way can I crowbar my way under the stairs to retrieve it.)
Fast-forward to the next appointment. Unless the coaching stops for reasons I can’t control, details are forthcoming on How Things Came To Be This Way. No matter what the facts may demonstrate, the father in this story is innocent. A given. No matter why the man is in jail, I’m sure his family loves him. A crucial factor in keeping anybody sane.
So why does the drawing of a bellyache take the shape of a car. And how did the mamma come by those fabulous earrings – no longer paired. Why is the boy in constant panic over planes crashing.Why are all windows in his drawings as black and guarded as his eyes.
No, I won’t lay out the family’s story here. But the boy did tell me what his daddy does for a living. Plus, we did get some good use out of the cardboard clock face a friend lent me as a teaching aid.
The draft? Yes, coming along; the connections just as haphazard as everything else. You catch the bus when you can; divert somebody else’s or make a thousand-mile detour, if there’s no other way to get to a destination. (Note: the word “destination” does not imply you reach the one for which you bought a ticket in the first place.)