Green Apples
Green Apples
Jake’s ill. Physically, no. Mentally, yes. The kid doesn’t know. Doesn’t seem to, at least. He doesn’t know he’s different, but sometimes I see him staring at other kids his age blank-faced. His mouth works like any other kid’s, believe me. His motor skills are fine, for the most part. The problem’s not in his arms, legs, mouth.
The problem’s in his brain.
It doesn’t work right. The nerves in his brain can’t control his arms, legs, mouth. He’s trapped inside, but he’d never let on that he feels like a caged animal. I can see it in his eyes when he watches the dust float in shafts of afternoon light; afternoon is his favorite time and dust is the most fun to watch…ever he knows he’s different in that he knows he can’t make his body obey his brain. Or maybe since he’s never known that kind of control, he can’t know what he’s missing. We may never know the level of disconnection he feels daily; his disease is terminal. He makes an effort to communicate, he really tries. Fuck, he tries hard.
In his own way.
Sometimes words fail him; must resort to arm motions and abstract noises from deep in his throat. Sometimes he can use words to paint pictures more beautiful than any poet’s. It’s when he can’t connect words to make sentences that he gets frustrated. You can see it in the way his fist beat against his head, tears falling like diamonds from his perfectly blue eyes. That’s when we have to stop him; he’ll injure himself without even meaning to. He’s not much younger than me, but he acts like a child. He’ll be doing so well, he’ll be having one of those days when he seems almost…normal, and then he has a fit. He’ll revert back to the days when he knew little and understood less. And he’ll punch and kick whatever is in his way. Me included.
Suddenly…Lucidity
Everyonce in a long while he’ll seem completely normal. His arms and legs will bend under the weight of the signals his brain is sending, and his mouth will form perfect words, perfect sentences. We’ve learned to take these moments in stride, though we stand awestruck before him when suddenly he’s answering a question using words we didn’t know he knew. These moments of clarity among a lifetime of fog plant seeds of hope in our heads. Doctor says there’s the chance he’ll get better. Recover. Our hearts cling to every last word, but our heads refuse to believe it. We can see in his decrease in already dismal motor skill that he’s getting worse. Those lucid moments slip between our fingers and are replaced with screaming, kicking, biting.
But when he’s not crying, he’s flying.
He’s never sad. He never complains. His smile is only gone when he’s sleeping. Every other time, he’s beaming from ear to ear. Even in sleep, he’ll smile like in his dreams he can move and speak like a normal kid. I can’t believe his face doesn’t hurt from smiling so much. Life’s easy for him; he goes to a special school for kids like him, Mom goes out of her way for him, and he’s got me as an older brother. In his eyes, the pros outweigh the cons. Doctors, neighbors, revel at how he can maintain this level of joy. I don’t wonder anymore. I don’t care anymore. His happiness is like a cancer. It grows and spreads and infects and floods and fucking suffocates.
He’s sick, but he’s saner than the rest of us.
I don’t know how it doesn’t all get to him. But, like I said, he doesn’t know he’s ill. Doesn’t know he’ll always be like this; dependant on others. Either way, he makes your heart break. When he’s happy, you wonder how he can manage to cope in a world so far above him. When he’s sad, you wonder why you’re keeping him imprisoned in this world so far above him. No matter what, you’ll never win. Maybe he doesn’t know the world’s above his head, maybe he doesn’t know that he’s sinking and he’ll never be on top. Maybe he just doesn’t know how not to cope.
Green apples.
Not red. Not fairly yellow. No. Green. Green only. He only eats green apples. Eats them every day. Unless he’s in the hospital. As reliable as clockwork, the bowl with seven apples in it on Sunday will be empty next Sunday. Every afternoon. Same time, same place. Everyday when my school bus rumbles to a stop down the street, he’ll be eating his apple at the kitchen table watching dust swirl in intricate patters in the light. And smiling. At the same time. His routine gets old. How can he stand looking out the same window? Same dust, same apples, same school days, same words he hears but doesn’t comprehend from Mom each day.
It’s annoying.
My younger brother by three years. My mentally ill little brother with eyes that can melt you and a heart just as warm. My brother who’s caged but doesn’t see what wrong. My little, perfect baby brother. The angel
I hate him.
The problem’s in his brain.
It doesn’t work right. The nerves in his brain can’t control his arms, legs, mouth. He’s trapped inside, but he’d never let on that he feels like a caged animal. I can see it in his eyes when he watches the dust float in shafts of afternoon light; afternoon is his favorite time and dust is the most fun to watch…ever he knows he’s different in that he knows he can’t make his body obey his brain. Or maybe since he’s never known that kind of control, he can’t know what he’s missing. We may never know the level of disconnection he feels daily; his disease is terminal. He makes an effort to communicate, he really tries. Fuck, he tries hard.
In his own way.
Sometimes words fail him; must resort to arm motions and abstract noises from deep in his throat. Sometimes he can use words to paint pictures more beautiful than any poet’s. It’s when he can’t connect words to make sentences that he gets frustrated. You can see it in the way his fist beat against his head, tears falling like diamonds from his perfectly blue eyes. That’s when we have to stop him; he’ll injure himself without even meaning to. He’s not much younger than me, but he acts like a child. He’ll be doing so well, he’ll be having one of those days when he seems almost…normal, and then he has a fit. He’ll revert back to the days when he knew little and understood less. And he’ll punch and kick whatever is in his way. Me included.
Suddenly…Lucidity
Everyonce in a long while he’ll seem completely normal. His arms and legs will bend under the weight of the signals his brain is sending, and his mouth will form perfect words, perfect sentences. We’ve learned to take these moments in stride, though we stand awestruck before him when suddenly he’s answering a question using words we didn’t know he knew. These moments of clarity among a lifetime of fog plant seeds of hope in our heads. Doctor says there’s the chance he’ll get better. Recover. Our hearts cling to every last word, but our heads refuse to believe it. We can see in his decrease in already dismal motor skill that he’s getting worse. Those lucid moments slip between our fingers and are replaced with screaming, kicking, biting.
But when he’s not crying, he’s flying.
He’s never sad. He never complains. His smile is only gone when he’s sleeping. Every other time, he’s beaming from ear to ear. Even in sleep, he’ll smile like in his dreams he can move and speak like a normal kid. I can’t believe his face doesn’t hurt from smiling so much. Life’s easy for him; he goes to a special school for kids like him, Mom goes out of her way for him, and he’s got me as an older brother. In his eyes, the pros outweigh the cons. Doctors, neighbors, revel at how he can maintain this level of joy. I don’t wonder anymore. I don’t care anymore. His happiness is like a cancer. It grows and spreads and infects and floods and fucking suffocates.
He’s sick, but he’s saner than the rest of us.
I don’t know how it doesn’t all get to him. But, like I said, he doesn’t know he’s ill. Doesn’t know he’ll always be like this; dependant on others. Either way, he makes your heart break. When he’s happy, you wonder how he can manage to cope in a world so far above him. When he’s sad, you wonder why you’re keeping him imprisoned in this world so far above him. No matter what, you’ll never win. Maybe he doesn’t know the world’s above his head, maybe he doesn’t know that he’s sinking and he’ll never be on top. Maybe he just doesn’t know how not to cope.
Green apples.
Not red. Not fairly yellow. No. Green. Green only. He only eats green apples. Eats them every day. Unless he’s in the hospital. As reliable as clockwork, the bowl with seven apples in it on Sunday will be empty next Sunday. Every afternoon. Same time, same place. Everyday when my school bus rumbles to a stop down the street, he’ll be eating his apple at the kitchen table watching dust swirl in intricate patters in the light. And smiling. At the same time. His routine gets old. How can he stand looking out the same window? Same dust, same apples, same school days, same words he hears but doesn’t comprehend from Mom each day.
It’s annoying.
My younger brother by three years. My mentally ill little brother with eyes that can melt you and a heart just as warm. My brother who’s caged but doesn’t see what wrong. My little, perfect baby brother. The angel
I hate him.