Joshua’s Precious Book

It was the morning of her birthday, a sunny and breezy day, there was just enough wind in the air for the leaves to lift off the ground twisting and twirling in dance like motions about the park. Apart from being her birthday it was an ordinary Sunday. She was seeking refuge from the obnoxious mood her husband found himself in after another bender! No doubt he had forgotten her birthday. Sadly this was something she was used to. When she was a little girl, even for special occasions never did she notice her dad pay any mind to her mother. This repeated scenario she found herself in her own marriage, left her feeling indifferent. To self soothe her inner feelings of emptiness she brought along one of her cherished books, The Prophet by Khalil Gibran. She had just turned the page. She was at the chapter where a villager, a woman who held a baby against her bosom asked the prophet: “speak to us of children”. Just then Mathilda looked up and spotted from a distance a little boy moving exceedingly slowly towards her. Clearly these were not the normal movements of an ordinary young child. The steps were far too outstretched and sluggish. As the lad was approaching she began to notice other alarming physical traits such as his locked and frozen shoulders accompanied by an empty and trance like gaze. The closer he came, the more pronounced his distress. His skin was ghostly pale and she could hear the almost inaudible sharp murmurs emanating from his soul through his lips which were swollen and slightly trembling. His big black eyes were swimming in a pool of tears and wet droplets hung from his long eyelashes. His hands which dangled by his sides were wide opened and drenched in bright red blood. Mathilda dropping her book ran towards the child. Instinctively, she said to herself… gently, approach him gently, he is in a state of shock. She leaned in towards the youngster, tilted her head and with a great gesture of benevolence extended her hand. The little boy was too distraught and feeble to notice and just walked passed her. Mathilda followed and placed herself in front of him, kneeling to his level. She opened her arms wholeheartedly blocking his way. The child then collapsed onto her chest, with his head resting on her shoulder he fainted. With the child now in her arms, she began screaming for help: “somebody please call an ambulance quickly! This child is injured!” A man came forward with a woollen poncho and laid it on the ground in order to rest the child. The bloody hands were the first to be examined. No source for the blood was found, no gash, no deep cut not even a scratch or wound. Mathilda checked for fever, his body temperature felt more cold than warm. His pulse seemed weak and his pupils looked agitated. Mathilda and the gentleman stranger were trying to resuscitate the child just as the ambulance arrived. The rescue team came running towards the scene fully equipped and ready to take the victim to the hospital. Mathilda climbed into the back of the ambulance with the boy and sat close to him, stroking his dark brown hair. She thought: never will I leave or abandon this child. In the emergency room, Mathilda was asked to register the child. “Your name, Madam?” “Mathilda Nelson”. She quickly added: “I am not the mother of this child, in fact I do not know him, and I found him in this state, in the park. I do not know what happened to him. We were not able to find any signs of injury.” “Thank you, Madam. Come with us, the doctor will surely have some questions for you.” Mathilda was surprised to be following their lead as though the child was someone close, like a brother or a son. The attending physician, a gentleman in his late forties looked calm and compassionate. The little tyke had recovered some of his life force while in the ambulance. Yet, when he arrived he violently threw up and his whole body began to tremble. He was cold and shaken with fear. It was important to keep the child awake, he needed to speak and say his name, be able to tell to the best of his ability what transpired. The doctor quickly diagnosed the boy’s condition as a severe trauma. The child had no physical injuries, but was indeed under acute emotional distress; but what? It was impossible to get one word out of him. His eyes were scanning the room searching for some point of reference, a familiar face or a soothing voice, anything to sort out the chaos inside him. His universe seemed terribly unfamiliar. From a distance, Mathilda observed the nurses and the doctor. She was listening to every word being said, her anxious heart wanted so much to interrupt them and say: I know he needs me, leave me alone with him. Like the child, she too was unable to articulate her thoughts. Coincidently however, just at that moment the doctor turned towards her and with a soft voice said: “Come closer, you were his first encounter, he needs you.” “I… I don’t know if he will recognize me.” “Come forward, approach carefully, we have nothing to lose.” Mathilda tiptoed gingerly towards the boy’s bedside much the same way one would approach the infant cradle of a light sleeper. Mathilda was apprehensive to jog the child’s memory. She didn’t want to awaken the wound his amnesia was concealing. However, she knew it was necessary. The doctor kindly stepped aside in the same way he was accustomed to after delivering a baby and handing the newborn to its mother. Mathilda’s heart would tense up with every step, and with each gesture she took as she proceeded nearer this broken angel who appeared almost lifeless. He shut his eyes in order to blackout all the strange faces he did not know nor recognized. Mathilda leaned in very closely to whisper into his ear. She did this with closeness and affection. She would have liked to have had that kind of intimacy with her mother as she lay upon her deathbed. She wished she had been there the day she died to move in closer and whisper farewell. This time, with the boy she was not afraid. She leaned over whispering words of welcome and encouragement. Without anyone else hearing, Mathilda’s breath gave off the effect of a stroking massage on the child’s cheek. She uttered the three words that would reach directly into the recesses of the child’s heart. “I am here…” He slowly opened his eyes and, without turning his head gazed deeply into Mathilda’s eyes. He immersed himself and centered on Mathilda for quite some time, before the flood gates opened. Tears flowed steadily down his face in large volumes, and dripped onto his neck. The tears looked like pearls. Mathilda reached out her hand, receiving the sorrow with the hopes of stopping the hemorrhaging heartache. She spoke softly, “sleep now, my angel… I will stay with you.” He fell into a deep sleep, exhausted from everything he had just lived through, all of which was still a mystery to everyone at the hospital. The doctor ordered that the child be kept under surveillance, and went out into the waiting room to speak with the police who were on standby. The authorities had been on the lookout for the child. The tragic event surrounding him was grisly. Mathilda could no longer bear to listen to the tale the younger of the two officers was revealing. She had to dash to the washroom. The police officer explained that it was a neighbor who had alerted them about a dispute lasting all evening and into the early hours of the morning at the child’s residence: “Once we arrived at the scene, things were eerily quiet. There was no noise, no screams except for a muffled groan coming from the child. We found the mother lying on her back, on the kitchen floor with shards of broken glass from bottles all around her. Her throat was slit. The little boy was sitting next to her trying so very hard with his trembling little hands to stop the bleeding. According to the neighbors, it was a drug dispute.”