I Don’t Know
“Hello,” I said, as I entered his hospital room: his thin lips pressed into a grimace, his head bent toward his blanket He did not want to play in clay. He did not look at me, even though last week he had fun making a small, bug-eyed sculpture.
“He’s not a happy camper today,” his mom said.
“I’ll make something," I told him, “but I may need your help to hold some clay.”
Soon, he was the director, telling me exactly where to push the plastic dowels into the clay;
A strange creature formed beneath our hands.
“What is this strange looking thing?,” I asked.
“An Alien,” he said.
“What is his name?,” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he told me.
“What a great name,” I said. When “I Don’t Know” started whispering in my ear, talking to the boy through me, the boy in the bed laughed. His eyes smiled beneath his long eyelashes. He rolled a ball of clay in his hand; “He needs two heads,” he told me “and a hand sticking out his back. Aliens don’t look like us,” he explained.
Soon, I Don’t Know, was standing on his four, plastic-dowel legs inside a plastic container: his spaceship (of course), hovering above the boy while he directed where the spaceship should land. “Over here,” he commanded, “right into my hand.”
Thirty minutes later, from a grimace to a laugh, I said goodbye to the boy in the bed. I Don’t Know rested in his hands.
Healing can knock upon a moment in time. Laughter can open the door.