Fearfully Loving

His tiny figure came silently plodding down the street, slowly meandering its way towards us. 

Black and red. Little soccer cleats tied neatly and basketball shorts to mid-shin are below his oh-so-small black tank top. His chest seems to sink into itself under the fabric and his eyes remain doggedly on the little action heroes clutched in his fists. I close the gap.

"Glad to see you." Spoke with a funeral joy. He remains silent and doesn't look up from his figures though he seems to be scoping out his surroundings for danger.

"Would you like to try something?" My fingers, pricked by his thick, jet black hair, cup around his small head as easily as though that's what my hand was made for. My eyelids close, mourning all that I know I will see in his eyes and tiny limbs. I feel him shake his head no. The sidewalk makes my knees complain but I lower slowly so my face is by his ear.

"What about chalk?" Silent shake. His little hands are still clutching Batman's cape. It's torn and burned along the bottom edge. His face remains in a cartoon grin, stoic in its plastic triumph. His arm muscles bulge in all their disproportionate glory.

"Do you like bubbles?" I shift my hand to his shoulders and touch them only with the edges of my fingers. They may be torn and raw under the pilling black.  Any pressure and their strangely soft contours would shake me off. Only his head shook however in yet another silent no.  Once again I shift with care, becoming more and more thirsty for words to come from between the teeth that are surprisingly still there. He's crouched down on his heels, seemingly absorbed in his figures. My feet are laid out in front of me now. I'm made vulnerable and unmovable in my listening silence. My hand cups around his shoulder blades as I endeavor to inject tenderness he hasn't been given through my touch. His chin remains down despite my great effort to lift it with pure will power.

Waiting.

I wonder if anyone has just waited before. Waited for the silence to melt. Waited for his tongue to move. Waited in order to enfold him in their arms.

I remain silent, continuing to draw mazes on his back. It's so small that the mazes are simple. Anyone could solve them. A strange misunderstood form of understanding.

More silence.

Then his head comes up. He looks around. Wrinkles line his forehead lending a wizened and harried look to his tiny face. A short life of runny noses has shriveled his upper lip. Lines are etched there from worry. His hands put down Robin but continue to enclose Batman. 

The two have much in common, these two little men in black.  Both identities are based on unattainable ideals. Identities are lost in translation.  During these speculations, I see.

Burns. Lacerations. Pockmark scabs that aren't from disease. Split knuckles, raw with neglect. More turns. Silence. A buffer left to mop up the dam that broke, freeing a million promises I had made and broken.

And then he was off. I scrambled up only to find myself walking step by step behind him as he meandered mistrustfully towards the others. The ball bag became a point of interest. Back to the sidewalk we went. Slowly, tenderly, fearfully. But delight was deep somewhere. Back and forth, back and forth. Two feet distance was all, rolling the ball. Minute after minute. He tossed, rolled, nudged the ball.

Then he spoke.

"My turn."

I could have cried so I grinned. The ball continued to roll back and forth. Now it was faster. Next it was flying. I missed it. He guffawed, I called out. I could have danced so I ran to snatch the ball and returned it to our strip of sidewalk.

More words came later.

"Get on your neck?" His tiny body so close to mine. To pour love on such a neglected, abused, and terrified little one is frightening. A spinning hug, a hair scrunch, a vigorous kiss on the cheek. You become lost. You want to bury your heart in their chest and hold them prisoner but you musn’t.

I asked him if everything looked funny upside-down as he dangled, secure in my arms.

"no"

Silly question. He's used to upside-down. that's his world. Where slashes aren't thought of twice and burns are left to blister unattended. A world where heroes are two inches tall and three-year-olds fend for themselves.