"I insist he comes along, said Gamache, holding out his hand to the boy, who took it without hesitation. A small shard stabbed Gamache's heart as he realized how precious this boy was, and would always be. A child who lived in a perpetual state of trust.
And how hard it would be for his parents to protect him."
From The Brutal Telling, by Louis Penny
Gamache in this scene is holding the hand of a boy with down syndrome.
Where I work, Ian comes in with his Mom every Thursday morning about 15 minutes after I open up. He has down syndrome. I don't know how old he is but he is not a little boy, he is not a child.
He has become my buddy. He lights up when he sees me, we fist bump every time, then we talk a little. When he learned my name a while back he started using it relentlessly. Every sentence has my name in it two or three times. It's cool.
His Mom is remarkable. She is so in tune with him, so patient with him, so delicately loving. They communicate perfectly, seeming to anticipate each other's thoughts.
I have seen other parents with a lot less patience for their kid's disabilities. I hate them.
When Ian has what he wants the visit is over. Our conversation ends abruptly and he and his Mom turn and leave.
He makes my Thursday mornings.
A lot of elderly people, a lot of very young children, and some people with disabilities come into my workplace. I get along well with them because I am a sensitive sort.
The regulars disappoint me. Every day people. Self-absorbed, insensitive, sometimes rude, impatient. They never listen, only talk.
I'm trying to work my way to a place in my life where I have minimal contact with other humans, unless it is a situation of my own making.
Until then, I will connect selectively.
