Very silently and carefully
I sneak in Steven's room.
His hands are waving in rotating movements over the smooth wallpaper.
He smiles lightly in the half-darkness, enjoying the quietness, the rhythmic
movements and the riches of his closed small world.
I take away his epilepsy-helmet, grabble trough his standing on end hair,and
his smile enlarges : when you have all day that protecting stuff on your head,
then scratching becomes a favor and a pleasure.
His big brown eyes look at me, his smile intensifies still more, and his hand
pinches mine in a recognizing way.
I enclose him somewhat more, and a wave of sad luck overwhelms me.
Quietly I start talking about his mother, who might almost a quarter of a century
care for him, who became ill on a certain day, and fought and fought and fought
....
Her fight lasted for years, years of pain, inconvenience and fear.
She wanted to live for you, my boy, because she was your guardian angel who
saw everything and knew everything.
She saw through your discomfort and pain, guessed why you slept longer then
normally or were more restless then else.
I agree with you, Steven, mothers shouldn't be allowed to die...
Because children like you need guardian angels, which can read in your eyes
everything, like mother Marian could.
Steven, I expected after her dead your eyes should have asked about mammy, you
should have searched hesitating around the whole house, but nothing of that,
you stayed what you were, the Steven of always.
And really it's better that way, who could say what's impossible to say, who
could explain you the big secret of dead ?
We must go on further now over the difficult ways of God, straight up when possible,
but often laborious and carefully, and you Steven become more then even before
the sense of my life.
While we are talking together quietly, shameless tears flew over your and my
cheeks, but luckily time is over that just girls and women were allowed to cry
...
Steven is totally quiet now, his eyes are closed, and suddenly I feel heavier
then ever your motherly presence, Marian, your breathe who encloses both of
us, and stimulates us to walk, stumble and creep over the rough paths, which
God drew for us.
I agree with you, Steven, mothers don't really die...