The Looking Glass

Once I came across a child - not any normal one - for he did not glance or stare, look or watch, speak or listen. But everything that surrounded him did. He was still and silent; his face impassive, his eyes unwavering, and his mind void of consciousness. He is out of this world, but we have him in ours.


The eyes are the windows to the soul. I stooped down and with a searcher's eye attempted reading his. It was brightly lit, slightly teary, utterly reflective. As seconds passed, my pupils grew larger and larger in the desperate and exhaustive encounter. "Why won't you look at me? Look at me. Look at me!," I whispered to him in my consciousness, applying a sharp and painful whip of the tongue with it, as if a command that demanded action. I burst in outrage, of disbelief, of discontent. "Hopeless!", cursed I did onto his futile bearing. In a minute or so, I shunned away from the misery, and went back to my seat for dear comfort.

There seated slouching, with gazed eyes staring down, as if at a loss, I conclusively asked, "Why do you exist? What is your purpose?" Then, shortly, it was as if an angel, eavesdropping over my dreary thoughts, retorted, "What are you gonna do about it? What is your purpose?" An answer in the form of a question that made me fall silent, ashamed at the response that felt like two slaps in succession: one hitting my left cheek, the other hitting my right. The special child had spoken to answer the fool who mockingly asked.


Then as the event came to an end, words and hand gestures of goodbyes were made. Everybody who attended, one by one, visited the boy one last time; looked him in the eyes, held his hand, or touched his head, and said "Goodbye, happy birthday," then left homeward. When the queue had shortened and my turn was next, I gently pat his head with my hand, knelt down, and finally greeted him, "Happy birthday, 'God bless you -- and me.'" And after another glance at the looking glass, I stood up and walked away with the confidence of a new discovery.