Peer Pressure

The words seem to float from the jurors mouth as she read the verdict. She stands before the court, uncomfortably balanced as though held by strings. Her gaze is fixed solely upon the piece of paper which held my fate. Although you could tell normally she would swipe her brown bangs from her dark eyes, which often fell down across her brow while reading, this time she lets them remain, almost as though hoping this helped her remain hidden.

Most of the other jurors stare at her as though awaiting the verdict unknowingly. It wasn’t their sole decision they would tell themselves later, it was a group decision. They would also comfort themselves by the feeling of a civic duty was thrust upon them and they did what was best for society. There will be many thoughts on lonely nights for some of these jurors as they lay in bed; staring at the ceiling, juggling this decision as though they were razor sharp knives performed in a circus act.

A few though look directly through me. They are proud they are better then me and feel a sense of accomplishment for being a part of this sanction of judicial relevancy. They will boost later at the bar, stiff cocktail in hand, how they played their role in the American Structure as they saw fit. That night, neatly pressed suit returned to the hanger in the closet, they will sleep well; never noticing the crack that runs like a spiderweb across their bedroom ceiling.

I hate neither these groups of individuals; neither the guilt ridden or guiltless. They did not cause me to be standing before them, the judge and God. I look down at my hands as these words drift towards me, feeling the sweat on my palm in a trickle. These hands could have gone on to do so much. They could have gained strength from days of hard work, each callous reminding me of accomplishment. They could have felt the soft arch of a woman’s back as I held her tight after a long day. They could have brought laughter to my child’s face as I brought them away from my eyes in a game of peek-a-boo. They could have done so many things.

Instead these hands took themselves away from me; as well as took away my mind, body and soul, when it fired a gun on that fateful night. How could it turn into what is now perceived as a cold hearted murder come from what I once remember myself as. Do any of these jurors know that I won my fifth grade spelling bee? Could they understand how I once wanted to be an astronaut, with dreams of floating in outer space? Or how I stopped Johnny Jenkins from throwing rocks at the school window; not for fear of being caught, but knowing it was a bad thing to be doing. How would they know, I no longer know that boy.

It all seemed to come so fast, as though the levees of my life broke free and water poured in from all sides. Nothing changed; my mother didn’t leave us, my father didn’t start beating me, I just changed. One day I was hoping the girl in the corner of home room would go to the Spring Fling with me, the next day I was ditching home room to smoke pot in the boys bathroom. A world that once seemed filled with brightness suddenly seemed a darker place. The feeling of a justified cause was only justified if it benefited me. I was angry for no reason, which just angered me more. The friends that I would play stick ball in the street were now enemies; judging me and not understanding who I really was. Yet they were the only ones that really tried to understand.

The new group I began hanging out with didn’t understand me, but they didn’t try to understand me. Instead they were in the same angst filled mental state. For some the world is their oyster; for us that oyster tasted disgusting, raw and hard to swallow. Defiance and being tough were better traits then smart and kindhearted. Things started simple, small acts of vandalism and some drugs to keep us entertained. This developed as we got bored with the smaller things and moved on to bigger. Vandalism turned to theft, pot turned to crack cocaine. I was in a haze driven by my own free will, without any control over that freedom.

My parents noticed and did the steps most parents do. They tried getting stricter, which I defied even stronger. They were now just as worthless as my old friends, not understanding, not knowing. They tried relating to me and looking towards ways to help me. I ignorantly laughed at this idea, how could they ever understand what I was going through. Everything just led to me being angrier; at them and at life. Anger is fast fueled when you really have no reason to be angry.

The words finally hit my ears. “We the people, find the defendant Guilty of first degree murder.”

For some, their eighteenth birthday is a day of maturity, independence and achievement. Mine just became a death sentence. Two weeks prior to the crime, yet changing the course of my life indefinitely.

This verdict was justified because it was unanimously decided upon my peers. Yet it was also my peers who unanimously decided to convince me that shooting Samuel “one sock” Johnson was justified. Life can be so ironic.

At this point I was living with my friend in a run down apartment, dropping out of high school to spend more time selling crack. The money was good enough to pay rent, buy a decent car and take out an assortment of women. I felt like I was on the fast track of life. My anger was clouded by my ecstasy of drugs and sex. My judgment clouded by my ecstasy. At eighteen, meager living conditions seem to be elevated when responsibility is knowing when to eat, shit and shave. We lived in the heart of the city, the heart of the action. I had the clothes, the gold and the attitude to show I was now a man.

The proving grounds were pushed further when I was told by my friends that one sock was dealing in our neighborhood. I knew action was needed, but felt tense about doing so. I had never really been in a fight. I’ve been there and backed my friends when they have been. I’ve gone toe to toes with plenty of guys trying to be harder then me. These just usually go back and forth with shit talking and how we could kick each other’s asses as we walk in separate directions. This would need more, this needed to be an example for others if I was to maintain my reputation.

Instead of maintaining my Reputation, I lost my future. What was supposed to be a scare tactic with my Glock pistol, turned into me shooting him. He just stared at me, and continued staring. My friends chanting, he’s disrespecting you, shoot him, shoot him. I can hear it over and over and see his eyes. Cold and hard as ice, yet would not melt. I stood there, arm extended, gun in hand. Praying he would turn and run. It felt like an eternity. I don’t remember squeezing the trigger, almost as though it just went off. He flew backwards and before his body hit the ground I began to run. Yet running can get you places, but will never set you free.

So know it’s been set, my future, the boy who enjoyed ice cream sandwiches and the sound of video arcades. The boy who used to sleep better after his Mom tucked him in and said she loved him. The boy who knew nothing of what the world had to offer. That boy was now a Man that would never find out what the world would have to offer.

Golfing Lessons

My Grandfather Harry Marland was a wise man. He never proved any scientific theories or outwardly shown his brilliance in a defining manner. He just simply portrayed wisdom by his behaviors. His voice rarely rose above a powerful tone, even when I was caught doing something wrong as a child. Instead he would simply let me know what I was doing was wrong and why, and in that itself I felt bad for my misdeed.

One of the things I loved the most about my Grandfathers demeanor was the way he thought before he spoke. Whether answering a question, or starting a conversation; you could tell he chose carefully the words he would use. When most human beings speak, we go off emotion. Words formulate on our brain and we expel them like they are needed to be released from the mind or the mind will suffocate; as though those words are rising from the depths of the ocean to capture their first breath of oxygen. The result of these actions usually involves the meaning of what we are trying to say to be misconstrued. A simple tone misplaced can change the whole parameter of a statement. Constructive criticism can turn cynical, admiration turned to jealousy, teachings turn into directions. It’s easy for the listener to find a different meaning and place judgment quickly when the person standing before them is speaking emotionally.

I remember once my Grandfather taking me golfing. I was young, and at this age I was known for my temper. Things upset me easily and I would find myself throwing the glorified temper tantrum as though a scripted act when getting frustrated. I would feel the blood begin to boil and as though there were no control over my actions. I was pissed, and the world was going to know it. I would take this anger out on anything or anyone near me. Walls would be punched, which would end with a busted hand and dented wall; yet no resolution to what frustrated me. Cuss words would fall out my mouth and things thrown; anyone near me falling prey to these actions. I would go into my demented rage, saying things that I didn’t even truly mean, with no concern for consequence. Most just stayed out of my way while occurring, parents administering punishment after finished. My Grandfather; however, had a different action on the greens of the golf course one sunny summer afternoon.

He was attempting to teach me the fine game that had been a relationship builder for him and my brother early in the year. My brother, as with most things in our youth, picked the sport up quite easily. We stood there on the driving range, my Grandfather and I, overlooking the wide span of open space before us. I was quite enthusiastic because I rarely got to spend time with him by myself, and hoped to make him proud of me with a nice hit of the golf ball. How hard could this really be, thought I impatient to step to the tee, the ball isn’t even moving.

My Grandfather attempted to give some tips on how to hold my hands, which felt uncomfortable and forced to me, like my fingers were bending in ways that should be administered as a torture device. He assisted with my stance bluntly, “Stand here, keep the ball here, bend the knees, keep your eyes down,” the orders came as though sharp sounds of instruction. I stood there, feeling awkwardly situated before this small, white, dimpled golf ball. I brought the club back fast like getting ready to hack a weed out of the lawn, and swung it forward with a thump as it struck the ground a few inches before hitting the ball. The club head, bouncing up with force, hit the top of the ball. It rolled off the tee and went about two feet forward, in which I began complaining before the ball and finished its roll.
“Have patience, Shawn,” My grandfather attempted to calm my nerves. “Golf is not as easy as it looks.”

We continued this pattern for about ten more times before I finally threw the club on the ground and stormed off claiming how stupid golf was. My Grandfather picked up the club and waked over to me as I sulked on a bench. He patiently held the club outstretched towards me and waited for me to look up. Doing so, he gave another nod back at the range with a stern look. It wasn’t a question of asking me if I would like to try again, he was telling me.

We went back and continued again the pattern, but this time my Grandfather adding words of advice, “Swing back slower, bring the club further back, your looking up, I’ll see where the ball goes.” In my mind I mocked every direction with an insult, yet followed the advice. After a few more attempts, the club connected and the ball soared through the air. With excitement I looked back at my Grandfather expecting to see him jumping up and down, yet he stood there, with the same poker face, watching the ball fly over the grass.

I questioned his motives, why was he not as happy as I, why was he standing there as though I hacked another ball two feet. He just stood there, looking at me, waiting for me to try again. So I tee’d up, expecting to smack the ball even further. I stood the same place, held my hands the same way, brought the club up the same speed, and whack; the ball rolled two feet. My temper flared, I got frustrated again and had enough. At this point, my Grandfather was ready as well. We collected the clubs and headed to the car.

On the ride home, I sat there disappointed at myself. The car was filled with silence as he had the same solemn look on his face. “You know Shawn,” he calmly stated, “you get very mad when you make a mistake, and very happy when you do something right. It seems to me you have two extremes, and voice them quickly.” That was all he said. He dropped me off at my Mom’s house and that was the end of my golfing experience.

As I got older, my temper was something I always had to work at. Many times I wound up in fist fights, pissed off friends, or angry girlfriends from words and actions taken in a barrage of angst. On the other hand, being the life of the party when in a good mood; happy, cracking jokes like nothing can bother me. This often went back to the two extremes, the Gemini inside of me.

This year has seemed to be yet another where this action has dictated my life. Work, women and friends were constantly plagued by a multitude of personalities; controlled by reactions. I remembered, while sitting at home one night, alone with my sixth beer warming my thoughts, on that day and what my Grandfather had not only said, but how he acted. He didn’t get upset at me, for either doing bad or for getting upset. He didn’t get overly excited for me as I made connection with that ball. He just watched and reacted slightly. This, made perfect sense with his statement in the car. We often allow our emotions to dictate our actions. By not allowing our emotions to get to us, we can react in a more positive way.

This should be the development of our actions. When something is happening, think before you speak. Take that extra breath and formulate the words correctly, as to make sure the meaning is clear and precise; versus a spattering of thoughts. Before acting on a feeling, think of consequences at hand and how that although this is what one feels at that point in time, see how things change and develop. Before speaking, think of how your actions will be portrayed and the affect they might have.

Later in life, I picked up the club again and began to golf. When doing so, the first thoughts etched in my brain were the quick directions my Grandpa provided. I could hear each given as I set myself before the ball. As I slowly brought the club back, hands in the right position, feet spaced just right, I could still feel him behind me. Then, as I brought the club down, whack, the ball rolled forward about two feet. I couldn’t help but smile.

Don't Let the Morning Come

Don’t let the morning come
I can smell the dew on my windowsill
Don’t let the morning come
I just want her to remain laying still

Because when she wakes up
I know she'll remember what I’ve done before
Because when she wakes up
I know she won’t be coming around here no more

Don’t let the morning come
Let that sun just take a little longer
Don’t let the morning come
I know she can no longer be any stronger

Lord, I know I’ve done her wrong
And I don’t have any right to Pray
Lord, I know I’ve done her wrong
But just for one more minute let her stay

So Please, don’t let the morning come
Because we both know I’ll never change
Don’t let that morning come
Just let for one more minute she remain

Sorry Me

My Mom used to tell me that my apologies meant nothing because I said I was sorry so much. It’s like the boy who called wolf, I would mess up constantly thinking that pouty eyes and the phrase “I’m Sorry” would give me exoneration from whatever devious act I was involved in. Rarely did I really feel sorry for what I had done. Most of the time if it meant I was in trouble, I enjoyed doing it; therefore the apology was just a way to ease the sentencing. Therefore, my Mom caught on and they had little impact on her verdict.

Well, I’m no longer getting in trouble by my Mother for coloring on the walls with blue crayons. It’s no longer the punishment I fear when she finds out that I’ve done something wrong. Instead, as we get older and our parents give way from disciplinarians to confidants, it’s the guilt of letting her down. It’s also the guilt for whoever my bad deed had caused pain. And the hardest part of all, is the guilt in letting yourself down.

Apologizing gets more complicated, just as the things we feel the need to apologize for do. Is sorry going to mend a broken heart as she throws things at your head? Is sorry going to persuade that cop to not ask you to blow in that breathalyzer? Is sorry going to get your job back if you screw up? Odds are, no.

Your Mom is also not going to punish you for these types of things. Instead, you’ll punish yourself thinking that you’ve disappointed her; something that wouldn’t have passed through a single synapse when a child. You’ll feel the need to tell her all about how you messed up, waiting for those judging eyes to tell you what you did was wrong. Instead though, without needing to even apologize, your Mom looks upon you with forgiving eyes and words of encouragement.

The worst apology that rarely is given is the apology to oneself. Very seldom do we look in the mirror and say I’m sorry for screwing up. It’s the one person, when being an adult, that you need to apologize the most to. Your behaviors of ill gotten acts have damaged nobody more then the consequences you face. Yet we rarely apologize. Even less do we forgive ourselves.

I found this to be one of my strongest flaws lately. I’ve done nothing truly wrong, haven’t drowned any kittens or gone on destructive act of vandalism, just the normal stuff we find ourselves waking with guilt from. Breaking a heart or being a drunken ass. Times when I know what I’ve done was wrong. I no longer need my Mother standing over me grilling me with those eyes. She did a great job of instilling values in me, but sometimes I push those values aside for selfish cravings of debauchery or lust. However, when looking upon what I’ve done, I feel guilty; worse then when I would break a house hold rule and my only concern was the punishment my parents were about to hand down.

So next time you screw up, and we all will screw up again, make sure to apologize to the one person that is taking the mistake the hardest, yourself. And even more important, forgive yourself for that mistake. Besides, we’re only human.

Happy Homless Man

So I'm driving to the coffee shop to escape my day at work today, I don't even need anymore caffiene to stir the tense anxiety of angst towards life from another annoying day of work. Here I am, teeth grinding, empty cup of coffee sitting in the cup holder, surrounded by spots from other cups of coffee designed to fuel me through the day. I dont' even know what I'm mad at, just have that heightened sense of my mind rushing through scenario after scenario.... Go Back to work, mind my yells at me, tell them to take this job and shove it up there asses.... Don't go back to work, simutaneously my mind yelling at me.... sell everything and run away from life to be a drunken pirate...not even sure what that part of my mind means, must be losing it a bit.... go back to work....the more rational part of mind, suck it up and work your ass of like you will day in and day out for the rest of your life.

As my mind is doing figure eights through my mind, like an angry high school kid taking his newly purhased bronco across a lawn at one in the morning, I notice a crazy black guy walking down the street. Crazy you ask, why would I presume, well unless he had the newest technology in cell phone hands he was laughing and talking out loud as jolly if telling a funny story to his friend walking next to him...but there was no friend. I tried to avoid a stare so the guilt of that poor unfortunate man wouldn't cause me a second of deep thought on our societies care for the mentally ill.... however instead found myself staring with quite interest.

I wanted to know, WHY WAS HE SO HAPPY. His sunken in checks and dangly arms told me was malnourished, probably had lost the memory of what a good steak dinner tasted like. Hung on his frame like a lampshade was a green stained shirt. His levi pants were almost faded to a white haze. He was alone, probably sleeping somewhere I wouldn't venture to in the middle of the day, with nobody in his life. Yet He was happy.

Yeah, could it be a mind of self madness, a distorted reality fueled by some snapped synapse in his brain, fueled by alcohol or drug. Most likely, yeah. but he was happy.

We all take a lot of pity on people suffering from mental handicaps, autistic, mental retardation, schezophrenia. Many of us see them and feel bad for them. However, a lot of the times they are smiling, laughing and jovial. It seeems to me a lot of handicaps out there seem to be self involved in another world not flawed by outside sources. Since there minds shelter themselves they don't find the problems people with a clear understanding of what's expected in society have.

Some of you reading might be saying....you cold hearted bastard. Some of you might be asking about that madman that is screaming obscenities. I'm not saying I don't feel individuals with mental handicaps have it "easy". I also am not saying all mental handicaps lead to a sense of euphoria. I'm just saying that some don't need sympathy and some do enjoy euphoaria..... and they are some lucky sons of bitches.

Imagine not having a rough day at work, the kind of days where you question what you are doing with your life, staring numbly into that tumbler of whiskey. Imagine not storming out the door after another fight with the person you are supposed to understand and cherish until death, yet instead find yourself wondering how you got yourself in this god forsaken mess with someone you truely never knew. Imagine not getting hot under the collar because you got cut off and that asshole in the audi didn't even glance back as your slammed on your breaks. Imagine not slamming on your keyboards as your computer freezes yet again with another virus, imagine not worrying about the state of the economy, war, famine and disease.

Instead you are just walking down the street, laughing at something we will never understand, nothing to your name and not a care in the world.

Doesn't sound to bad to me.

Puzzles

So I lay awake at three in the morning, questioning life in a particular way. I look at the women that I’ve known over the past few years and my attempts at that dreaded word known as commitment. My friend Tracie always questions my ethics, in here high pitched tone asking, “why do you go back and then run away again?” That’s the exact thing that got me to start writing the next piece I put together, puzzles. I can’t answer directly what is in my heart or mind when I find myself perched on the barstool, drinking away the sorrows of another lost love affair. Instead I just take that drink and try not to think too much about what I gave up.


Relationships are like puzzles. You begin with scattered pieces and broken images you hope to put together. Starting with the corners you build a base and start filling everything in with rapid success. At first the pieces come easy and before you know it they snap together completing the frame. Then, intrigued on one corner, they continue to find their way in your hands; almost standing out alone. There shapes have minor contours that are simple to match by briefly rummaging thru the pile. You quickly moved forward and get a glimpse of a part of the picture; half the puzzle is laid out in front of you, showing what you so hoped for.

For a while you leave the puzzle as it is. Although not finished you enjoy what has become. while leaving the other pieces in a pile on the outskirts of the border. Then one day you realize you have not finished what you started and are no longer fulfilled with just that portion of the picture. There is the need to find out what the rest displays. So you begin attempting to build further.

This time, however, the puzzle pieces are different. Sharp edges, deep pockets and complicated shapes confuse you. There doesn’t seem to be any pieces that fit together right, no matter how many times you move things around, nothing now falls into place. Mental exhaustion and defeat befall you as the pieces are swept of the table and put back in the box. The picture you once enjoyed, pulled apart, framework collapses as you put the lid on the box and put away on the top shelf of your closet; feeling it was just to hard to finish.

A little while goes by and you come across that box again, dusting it off it’s decided that you miss that picture that you once created. Quickly, the pieces you completed before fall back into place, surprisingly effortless. After that picture has been re-established you realize those other pieces still sitting unsettled. For a while, again, you put those pieces out of sight and just enjoy the half completed puzzle.

Yet as time goes by those pieces find themselves being turned in your hands with scrutiny. Placed down this time, however, you just want the puzzle completed so begin making pieces fit together; pushing them together, with room left between, cutting edges to make things work. The puzzle is finally complete.


Yet, when you look on what you created it’s not the image that you had hoped for. Part of the picture lies clear before you, yet the other half looks like abstract art created from a demented painter. You’re eyes no longer focus on the part you enjoyed when by itself, instead focusing on the mess that was created thru hasty decisions and lack of reprucussions. The puzzle is again swept away into the box and placed back on that top shelf; while hoping someday, someone will know how to complete that puzzle, but it won’t be you.

Suffocation

The young boy sits in the hospital bed, mattress held firm against his back, slightly risen so he could watch cartoons. The iv itches as it digs into the vein in his wrist, held in place by the translucent tape. Everytime he shifts his arm he could feel the needle move inside of him. His other hand is occupied holding a breathing treatment to his mouth, methodically taking breathes to release his lungs from the pressure that will not subside. It just won't subside.

A nurse comes in and checks on his the amount of medicine left in the breathing aparatus. It makes a gurgling sound as it turns the liquid solution into air. He bits on the mouthpiece so to give his hand a rest. The nurse looks at him impatiently. "If you let that drop again, we have to do this all over." The boy rolls his eyes and returns his hand.

He knows the drill. For the past few years he felt the poke of the needle and the throb of his hand holding that damn machine. He was ten years old now and they kept telling him that it would get better; soon he would be able to run with the other kids while playing football, not need a note for p.e. while sitting on the bleachers while the other kids made faces as they rapidly ran laps. Yet that night, just as with many other nights, he awoke with nothing in his lungs but a grasp for breath. At first, hoping to just go back to sleep. At least in his dreams he could run. Yet sleep he could not, he felt like he would vomit and had to get up. And in those situations, as he slowly opened his bedroom door, feeling the guilt of having to bother his mother again, she was already there. "Another one," she would ask, but not of impatience for herself, but of impatience for what she knew he felt; the pain that fullfilled her childs lungs.


The hospital was a drill, almost like something you see practiced when a women is near giving birth; suitcase in hand, action plan in place. They had their plan and without words carried it out until the young boy was in that hospital bed, with that hard mattress, trying not to lose feeling in his hand so the nurse wouldn't scould him.

Usually his mother would never leave his side, reading her book in the uncomfortable chair, barking orders at the new doctors who always wanted to try something new. "That doesn't work, we know what works, just do what I tell you." The doctor would roll their eyes as though her suggestion was wrong. Later they would fill out the prescription nonetheless, knowing the whole time she knew what was better for that child then they.


This time the boys mother was away getting him a treat from the cafeteria. He knew this weighed on her, he could see sometimes in her eyes the drain from dealing with him, but also knew that the love she felt was deeper then the drainage could reach. Much like a leaf blocked gutter on a stormy day not allowing the emotions to override the need to be strong. But he knew and hated waking her everytime, but it just wouldn't subside.


He was not an unhealthy looking boy, not sickly at all. Besides the whezzing noise that ecsaped his breath, one would think he would have been on the third base man for the local little league. However he wasn't, he was just trying to keep his hand from falling asleep. His blue eyes looked curiously around his room. Although all of the rooms looked the same; the cross on the wall, everything flitering thru white.

Why was there so much white in the hospitals? Is that why everyone thinks they see a bright light when dying, really just the translucent glow of the roof as they stare off losing grasp on reality? Or is it to make one feel pure, as though whatever has gone on before they entered that bed is forgotten. Who knows, he was just a kid, he just knew the room was way to bright for his likings.

The TV hoisted in the corner played a cartoon, however the antenna was bent causing the screen to flicker every 30 seconds or so, just enough to make you not want to stare. He already complained, and they told him that was the best that channel could work. It reminded him of himself. It looked like a normal tv, just couldn't work quite right.


The boy heard voices coming from the other side of the room, vision blocked by the blue curtain....only thing not really white, but of course it was a light blue. It sounded as though a Mother spoke to her son with a polite sincerity you only hear in a mothers voice when her child is sick. Soft, subtle, not wanting to arose any emotion in herself. "I'm just gonna go check for the doctor again, I'll be right back," she assured her son. Of course she would be right back, where else would a mother go, the young boy wondered.

"Alright, you're all done with your breathing treatment for now," the boy already knew this because the gurgling had come to an end. However if he told the nurse that she would tap sharply on the side, hurting his teeth and tell him there was a bit more. Better just let her do it when she feels it's done.

"Now try to get some rest and we'll give you another one in about an hour, then you should be alright to go home.:" The nurse said, dressed in white, and walked away.


The boy sat there for a moment only to realize as any young child would, he was bored. So he reached out with his right hand, causing the needle in the left to send bolts up his arm, and pulled back the curtain to see who needed to be re-assured their mother would return. A young black child lay on the best next to his. Looked to be about 10, like himself, yet skinner, weaker. The young boy stared over for a minute, trying to think of something to say, until the sicky black child turned his head and looked at him. His body might be weak, thought the boy, but his eyes were definitly not. "Hey there, what's your name," the black child asked.


"Shawn, what's yours?"


"Billy, what's wrong with you?" These are the formalites of hospital room guests.


"I had an asthma attack, what about you?" Shawn asked.


"I have leaukimia." Billy informed the inquirer. When he announced this his eyes returned to the roof.


"What's that?" Shawn had heard of many types of illnesses being in the hospital on so many occassions. Especially going thru the emergency rooms, people being carted in with blood soaked shirts, pale white and ghastly looking or clenching for their heart as loved ones scream behind them for someone to do something. But this word was a first.


"It just means I'm very sick." Billy said this without a softening of his voice, without so much of a winch in his nerves. The silence was erie, even for that in a hospital.


"Yeah, so am I," Shawn came back matter of factly. "I can't even play football without using my stupid asthma inhaler."


Billy kind of lauged at this notion, "I've never played football." The boy answered.


"You've never played football, man that sucks. Well, I can't play much anymore, anyways, none of the kids want to play with me. What sports can you play."


"I've never really played any, but I love watching baseball. Sometimes I dream I'm the pitcher, striking the guy out."


"Well, you can play catch can't you. I mean, I can even do that."


"Not for a long time, I've just been too weak, but I love watching."


"Well, when you get out of here and feel better, you need to play some catch."


This Billy looked over at Shawn, "Sure, yeah, I will." He lied.

Shawn's Mom walked back in the room with an orange juice box in hand. "Here ya go, how about we get out of here soon?" She asked me, as though it were up to me.

"The nurse said I had to rest."

"Well, rest away, just let me know when you're ready. Oh yeah, got you some baseball cards."

The boy laid there for a moment, then looked over to his side. Realizing for the first time just how sick this boy was, not from what he said, but just the way he said things. Shawn knew then this boy wouldn't play catch, or football. Yet at this age, what does one do to offer solace to another.

After a few minutes, the nurse returned, "Ready to get out of here?" again asking the boy.

"Yeah, please." Shawn responded. The nurse took the iv from his hand. Shawn went into the restroom and dressed. As he walked out, Shawn thought for just a moment on what lay before him in life. Complications, yes, but complications to be overcame.

He started to walk out the door with his mother, then stopped and walked back to the sickly child that laid quietly staring at the roof. "Here you go," Shawn said, handing the boy his baseball cards.

"Thanks," was returned with true sincerity. Besides, what more can be done, when you're only ten.