There was a little boy that lived in Maine. (my nephew) He was born long before me but never got to know his younger uncle. In his sixteen years I’m not sure he ever got to know anyone. Like all little boys he loved to play and get into trouble. What was he thinking?
He is thinking how much fun it is to learn to crawl, take the first step, then not thinking much about anything. He may have just stop thinking about stuff. Maybe the best times in his life were when big sister and grandpa would come visit. Maybe, the crafts or the painting. Maybe looking out the window. The window that would see spring time and the birds singing, then the summertime and watching the man mow the lawn, then the leaves would turn into a million colors and drop to the ground. Then the window would turn all white, powder puffs would fall from the trees.
Johnny didn’t have to worry about anything at all. His food was always in the same place and he had a place to sleep. Did he care how he was treated? Did he get the proper care? When he was sick, did they send him to a doctor? When life is so simple, so simple is life, so easy to forget, so maybe it never happened? Johnny were you in pain? Tell me John Anthony, did you have a good life? I’m sorry that I never got to meet you John, but I will never forget you.
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