Maxuel

 

He is a tall, thin, gangly boy, all arms and legs, easily distracted and clumsy. His legs dance as he stands in line for school. He loves to yell and laugh, but when upset or confused, he retreats within himself and becomes dissociated, entering a separate world where he stares at untold memories. He has a massive smile which shows all of the painful cavities in his mouth. When his eyes meet mine each day, he leaps toward me and runs to embrace me, calling my name, burying his head into my chest when we meet. He holds tightly to me as I caress his head and ask about his day, then ever-so-sweetly asks for a glass of cold water after stumbling through his answers to my questions. His thoughts come too quickly for his words to express. After he finishes his drink, he takes my hand and we sit together outside watching the other children as they spend their precious few minutes between class and chores, chasing each other through the courtyard and attacking any round object they find. Soccer can be played with empty soft drink bottles, half-flat destroyed rubber balls, tennis balls, so long as they are able to be kicked and are lightweight. He yelps as his friends rush by, enthusiastically cheering the action. Yet, at the splitting of a second, his face changes and his eyes grow dark, telling of trauma he cannot voice. He starts to whine and cry quietly if the sounds of the game increase too quickly, if a mob scene develops or if there is a sudden loud noise. He shrinks into my chest as I hold him, wrapping my arms around his small frame and holding them there. He tucks his head under my chin as he endures the pain of sorting through his emotions. He is unable to speak, but looks away as I hold him tightly, and slowly relaxes into me, finding my hands with his. We sit together, my mind filling with questions that will never be answered, as I wonder at the resilience of such a little boy in the face of terrors which I will never know. He starts to return to the present as he looks up at me and intertwines his fingers with mine, tracing my veins and studying the palms of my hands, still quiet but smiling just the tiniest bit as I tickle his underarms and neck. We stand together and he requests another glass of water, relishing every sip. When I take my backpack and start to say goodbye, his face falls again and he grabs my hand, motioning back to the bench where we sat for so many minutes. So we sit again as I tell him I will return tomorrow, praying that this will reassure him enough to keep him from crying. His thirst for love is excruciating, and he reluctantly leaves me to begin his daily chores and dinner preparations. As I walk out the gate, there is once again a hand in mine as he runs back to me for a final hug before retreating into the evening.