who he wants to be
The image I caught of him as I’ve never seen him before,
Is as fleeting,
As the wheelchair trial,
But the guilt remains heavy on my chest.
And I am left shell shocked,
By the power of association.
How as his own mother,
I was capable of generating such a judgement,
Simply by the visual perception of a disability aid.
But I soon realise it was so much more than that,
The trial robbed me of years I thought I had,
Before facing a glimpse of losing my baby,
And seeing a boy,
On the cusp of projecting himself,
And an image of himself,
Out into the world,
A sometimes cruel world,
Which he will have to tackle,
With all its judgments,
And I was far from ready.
I need more time.
And I strongly maintain that he deserves more time,
Without the wider community,
His own mother,
Or any therapist,
Painting onto him,
And image of Isaac,
Before he has been given the chance to figure out for himself,
Who he wants to show to the world.
And we absolutely seem to fail them,
By not offering them that opportunity,
Or possibly ever even posing them with the question,
Or giving them alternatives contrary to a formulated norm.
And while I see,
Just how far I am from acceptance,
In so many ways,
I will strive to remind myself,
To always ask him first,
What he wants,
And who he wants to be.
The End of Chapter Eleven