The father comes and goes. Each day, he will walk into the room and stare at the boy lying on the bed. That was years ago for the boy is a young man now. But the father hasn’t stopped. He doesn’t stand anymore, rather he sits, waiting for the day everything will change, waiting for the miracle the doctors promised.
The son was eleven when it all began. To the father, it feels like yesterday. He had climbed the orange tree while the father watched, and when he slipped and fell, the father had giggled, waiting for him to stand. He didn’t. His eyes also remained closed.
The father is sitting at his usual position. He’s dreaming again. A stranger passing through won’t say he’s asleep, for his eyes are open and focused on the son and he’s smiling. In his dream he’s standing. The son, almost as tall as him beside him. They have their backs against each other, fingers linked in connection, eyes closed in concentration. This dream is different. Every other day, he would dream of the fall, the screams, the crowd. Today, he feels and hears everything, but it isn’t of pain. He doesn’t have a name for it but it gives him peace. He feels the calmness down to his toes.
His eyes flies open. His fingers are linked together. It takes him a while to notice and unlink them. He stares at the son just as his fingers began to twitch, his lips moving, his forehead beaded with sweat. Panicked, the father stands and runs for the doctor. He doesn’t dare hope, but the wait may finally be over.
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