Status: Christmas Break is coming up. I'll be able to write more, then. ^.^ Finals and presentations and projects....Gah!! I haven't given up on this, though, promise! I have somewhat of an ending written...And I love it!
Weeds
September 18
September 18
I want to prolong his childhood. Fourteen is not grown-up, no matter what society thinks. I think kids in general are growing up too fast, Jaden included. I know I did. I grew up way too fast. It wasn’t my fault, though, and almost every day, I wish that I could have had just two more years of childhood, maybe three. I deserved at least seven, by normal standards. I was only nine when this whole mess started.
Anyway, Jaden thinks himself all grown-up. He thinks that because he’s been a teenager two whole years, he gets to throw away his childhood, his innocence. I tell him to fight for his right to be a kid. He doesn’t listen to me. He never listens to me.
I watch him, though. Through the dark of the night, when the neighbor’s big dog howls and sets off all the neighborhood dogs, I see his big, dark eyes widen fearfully in the light coming through the window. I see him giggle at Saturday Morning cartoons, his stick arms wrapping around his lean frame as he rolls on the sagging couch…all because some duck got a piano dropped on its head. I watch him tilt his head, the better to pick out the different instruments leaking over my stereo speakers, his wavy black hair falling over his pale face, and his thin lips twisting in thought. I see that silly grin as he looks up and tries to get me to hear this instrument playing in that key…or whatever. I see him roll his eyes as he gives up on me…“for now!”
He’s just a kid.
But then I watch him come into my room, his eyes huge, his face sickly pale after struggling through a one-sided attack from our half-drunken mom. I watch him chortle over some sick adult comedy on late-night TV, laughing about drugs and sex and god knows what else. I watch him kick a bottle of pills across the living room floor, his head cocked to pick out the scales…rattling notes of slow death… and the sudden pop as the lid comes off…spewing the mixed contents over the rug. I watch him bend over and sift his long, thin fingers through them, studying the contrast and complements of the different colors. Finding beauty in sickness.
I remember he’s not just a kid anymore. He’s stuck somewhere in the middle. And if I’m not careful, I might miss the moment when he goes over the edge…when I might be able to stop him.
It’s just one more thing I have to take care of.
Go figure.
I want to prolong his childhood. Fourteen is not grown-up, no matter what society thinks. I think kids in general are growing up too fast, Jaden included. I know I did. I grew up way too fast. It wasn’t my fault, though, and almost every day, I wish that I could have had just two more years of childhood, maybe three. I deserved at least seven, by normal standards. I was only nine when this whole mess started.
Anyway, Jaden thinks himself all grown-up. He thinks that because he’s been a teenager two whole years, he gets to throw away his childhood, his innocence. I tell him to fight for his right to be a kid. He doesn’t listen to me. He never listens to me.
I watch him, though. Through the dark of the night, when the neighbor’s big dog howls and sets off all the neighborhood dogs, I see his big, dark eyes widen fearfully in the light coming through the window. I see him giggle at Saturday Morning cartoons, his stick arms wrapping around his lean frame as he rolls on the sagging couch…all because some duck got a piano dropped on its head. I watch him tilt his head, the better to pick out the different instruments leaking over my stereo speakers, his wavy black hair falling over his pale face, and his thin lips twisting in thought. I see that silly grin as he looks up and tries to get me to hear this instrument playing in that key…or whatever. I see him roll his eyes as he gives up on me…“for now!”
He’s just a kid.
But then I watch him come into my room, his eyes huge, his face sickly pale after struggling through a one-sided attack from our half-drunken mom. I watch him chortle over some sick adult comedy on late-night TV, laughing about drugs and sex and god knows what else. I watch him kick a bottle of pills across the living room floor, his head cocked to pick out the scales…rattling notes of slow death… and the sudden pop as the lid comes off…spewing the mixed contents over the rug. I watch him bend over and sift his long, thin fingers through them, studying the contrast and complements of the different colors. Finding beauty in sickness.
I remember he’s not just a kid anymore. He’s stuck somewhere in the middle. And if I’m not careful, I might miss the moment when he goes over the edge…when I might be able to stop him.
It’s just one more thing I have to take care of.
Go figure.