This Sunday, my parents and I attended the 11 o'clock service at the Summit church, which happens to be exactly in the middle of wanna-be-somewhere-but-instead-nowhere-ville. I fell into step with my parents as we entered the warehouse-resembling sanctuary. I placed my belongings on the chair my parents had assigned me to and stared into space, absently allowing each lyric that the singer uttered to drift through one ear and out the other. Suddenly, I saw some kids traipsing in, on the heels of (who I assumed was their) mother. As the children settled in, one seat open between their mother and the two children, a second boy maneuvered between his brother and sister and the chairs of the row in front of him. Gracefully, he shifted into his spot and rolled back his shoulders and raised a hand to his face. Beneath his palm was a white air mask. Inches above it resided a pair of eyes, observing and grasping everything around his slender being, gaping at the austere sights around him. Those eyes were solemn and rigid, sour and calloused. They were just eyes, no eyebrows or eyelashes. Only eyelids and eyeballs. A dark purple, a passionate purple, a searching purple-colored pupil.
I glance away, not wanting this young boy to feel ashamed of what he cannot control. I feel ashamed as he probably felt my stare, as he probably receives many, for having cancer at such a young age. I flip open to Pride and Prejudice as the pastor's presentation begins (I normally would at least listen, despite my agnosticism, but he is talking too fast for me to process). I read about one page every six minutes. I can't help but peering out of the corners of my eyes to catch sight of this young boy in a blue shirt. Thoughts and questions are flying quickly through my head, like a ball in an intense tennis match. I wonder if the boy can play dodgeball, or eat a thickburger. I wonder if he can skid into home base when he hits a home run or if he can have a hot dog eating race. I had to put away my book for a moment to gather myself. I had to shake out the thoughts and questions of what he will be able to do, because I knew that none of those things probably mattered, just the fact that he was alive.
I whispered to my dad that the kid had cancer, that his life was in danger. I had to divulge to someone this secret that was slowly eating me away. The whole rest of the sermon, my concentration was fleeting. As the service dragged on and communion began, I was a spectator of the little boy's every move, silently desiring that my concern would be his cure. I sat in absolute reticence, all thoughts filtering through my brain and then dissolving into dust. I continued to look in the boy's direction, but all I saw was a shiny scalp, and a line of white circling an ear. I choked back tears, on the brink of breaking down in a bible-beating building. I looked down at my crossed legs and tried to focus on a bruise on my leg. I tried to focus on anything that pushed the boy out of my mind's eye. The glistening head under the fluorescent lights blinded me, I couldn't even see his face because he was so small, so young, so innocent and undeserving. And there, that church, was the last place I'd want to be if I were so juvenile and already cursed with cancer. Finally crowds became swarming my direction, toward the direction of the doors. I stood up, shaky and basically having to turn on my cognitive functions, forcing myself to think and return to where I was.
I followed my parents to the car and once again brought up the young boy in the blue shirt. An angry peace came in the middle of us. Silence had never enraged me more. I bit my tongue and clasped my hands to prevent myself from exhibiting my upset attitude. Unsettledness ran from my head to my toe as I had just witnessed my parent's indifference towards a boy who probably cannot even think about living to be 50 years old, at this point in his life. He cannot even think of naturally balding as my father is, for chemotherapy has already taken his hair in exchange for a cancer-free life, something it may not even be able to return to him. He doesn't have to worry about graying as my mother is, because there is no hair to gray. He won't receive mono, like my sister has, because he cannot even remove the air mask to share a drink or kiss someone. No, instead gifts that any seven-year-old would not even think twice about, have already been robbed from him. I looked down at my phone and pressed the home button: 12:34 read on my screen. It's my favorite two minutes of every 24 hours, but I normally don't see it but once every couple months. Whenever I see it, I always make a wish on it, because it is such a lucky number, and my favorite number. I glanced at the time again. It was stubborn and tantalizing, as I fought my selfish desires. Before I could consider my own wish anymore, I made one for the blue shirt boy. Too many things have already been taken from him, I knew. That wish wasn't mine to make anyhow, it was his.
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