The Music In Us

The boy looked to be in his late teens though it was hard to tell. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and brand new Nikes with flashing lights at the heels. He and his mother had found a niche in back of the stage where the music echoed in the open air like thunder. She sang along, tapped her feet and swayed to the sounds of the old blues songs and every few minutes would get to her feet and take her son's hands in her's and move back and forth. She smiled at him and cradled his head, kissing him gently on the forehead. When the music ended, she would kneel in front of his wheel chair and take his hands and clap then brush his hair back, kiss his cheek and speak to him softly. I couldn't hear her words but I didn't need to - love was written all over her face.

His responses were limited by his muscular paralysis and he could only sit slouched in the chair. When his hand would slip off the wheelchair arm, she patiently put it back. She adjusted his feet, his sweatshirt, held a drinking cup to his mouth. When the sun came around to where it was shining directly in his face, she produced a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. Physically, he acknowledged none of her actions but there was love in his eyes. Did he hear the music, I wondered as I watched her toss her dredlocks and laugh and two step around his chair. She had brought it with her before any of the musicians began to play.

To raise a disabled child must take incredible patience and energy and sacrifice yet there they sat on a warm fall afternoon without a care in the world. The music plays on in all of us - we have only to listen.