They Danced (Dedicated to Brittany S.)

She was in first grade when they met. At recess time she came over to stand by Kevin's side. She stayed. She watched his eyes; they were blue. She listened and liked the sound of his voice. She looked on the inside.

She learned his favorite color; it was green. She talked with him. She learned his language and his ventilator voice. She told him funny stories and made him laugh. She was considered brave: she wiped the drool from his chin. Over time, she learned to pick up his hands. She played with his hands and his feet. They laughed to tears. She wiped his eyes. She came at lunch time. They sat together, face to face. She learned to feed him. She knew how cold his feet were, how soft his hands were. She knew the shape of his spine, too; it had the curves of an “s.” It didn’t matter. She was there every morning when he got off the bus; she pushed him in his chair.

One day she picked up his hands and they began to dance. They danced, gracefully. They were poetry. They laughed and she knew his thoughts. He knew hers. When no one knew what he was trying to say, she knew. She knew his voice.

He walked her to class. They could talk without talking. She made him laugh. He made her smile. The sound of his breath she knew well; she often took his breath away, even while they danced.

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PS: Brittany would later go to school and become a Respiratory Therapist