Brigid
My Brigid.
My Beauty.
My Fwen.
That’s how
she says “friend.”
And you are blessed
if she calls you that.
My images of Brigid
–
Her sunshining sliver
of a smile
Calling it Up Syndrome
Putting her in boxes
Filled with styrofoam
peanuts, jello, shredded newspaper
Different textures,
baby. Notice!
Brigid growing.
Oh so slowly.
Tiny feet, fingers,
ears.
Inside one of those
tiny ears, something large.
A mass. Take it out.
Takes her hearing
out with it.
“Watch my shows,”
she declares.
Knows she should
ask.
Knows she should
say “please.”
“No wannie.”
If Brigid no wannie,
it ain’t happening.
Oh, Downs kids are
so happy and loving.
That’s what
people say.
I say – take
Brigid for a day.
Then come back and
talk to me about stereotypes.
No one has taken
me up on my offer. Ever.
Adorable. Precious.
Unyielding. Fickle. Selfish. Generous. Stubborn.
More is inside her
head than she can get out.
I worry about that.
About her.
Not nearly as cognitively
deprived as Kelsey.
Not nearly as cognitively
blessed as Paul.
What awaits her?
I worry.
When I have time.
When I see Brigid,
though, I give my time to her.
I have little choice.
She is so happy and
loving. And stubborn and vocal.
My Brigid. Hers.
May 4, 2003