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One Man's Trash
Lucy Morris gazed down at the boy playing in front of her. The continuous stream of light coming down illuminated the toddler’s animated features. Most people wouldn’t have noticed what was different about the delighted child, but she did, with fleeting sadness.
She had to, ever since two years ago, the doctor told her, gravely, that, “I’m sorry, Ms. Morris. Your son –-he has-- . . . he has been diagnosed with a moderately rare syndrome. I wish there was more I could do”.
Looking back, other than the birth, she remembered despair. She was nearly drowning in despair in the shabby apartment which she lived in. Her apartment was drab and altogether steeped in sorrow. The sorrow was a deep, aloof gray, that didn’t care about how much she suffered. She couldn’t steel herself to get rid of it, no matter how much she tried.
Her overwhelming sadness only lasted about a week, though, and after she overcame her wounding despair, she set forth to care for her son. The doctor, bearing the blood results, told her about her son’s condition. She was told, matter-of-factly, that her son may never live a normal life.
He had a condition called Prader-Willi Syndrome, which meant that he couldn’t control his eating, had a very low muscle tone, and would possibly have some obsessive or compulsive disorders. Most of them didn’t live very long, and died as early adults. It was caused by missing parts from the fifteenth chromosomes in his body, some of the ones from the father.
She bit her lip, as she remembered that she would be a single mother. It would be hard to face, as her boyfriend had abandoned her after he heard the results. She thought her boyfriend cared, more than just a quick one-night-stand and lightning-quick, hasty parting words that were utterly lacking in sincerity. Apparently, her son was too much trouble to care for.
As she thought that, she was reminded of the old proverb: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. He was so full of childish joy!
Coming out of her thoughts, she smiled as she looked at her son, Awan. She knew that someday, he would be someone.
As the sun slanted through the slide at the playground, down onto her beaming son, she felt happy. Her son was well and happy, and at the moment, everything was perfect. She didn’t want to leave the only place where her son was truly himself, just like everyone else.
She, smiling, went over to Awan. She told him, “Come on, Awan, it’s time to go home.” As they walked home, his mother leaned down and whispered into his small ear, “Someday, you will be someone. You already are to me.”
The sunlight danced slowly as they walked home, entranced by the day.