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Crouched like a frog you sit
atop that miniature chair painted white
and watch the other children
pass through the corridor.
And while you sit still
unable, though willing, to partake
in the games the other little ones play
youre set apart, alone.
At six youre smaller than
most kids at three,
yet you loom large as you struggle to
get around and just breathe.
Your world is different, Marcos,
though youll never understand.
By a cruel twist of fate youre
forever to be unlike any of your mates.
Forever blue in the face,
perpetually out of breath,
your heart of gold serves everyone
but yourself.
Unlike the other children who pass
through this place,
you will inevitably pass to another
where children are never sick.
And how I will miss you
as I ascend the stairs to your floor
where you hold court
and find you gone.
For that golden heart
that precarious pump
still propels you to joy
as we approach each morning.
How marvelous is your simple purple grin
that peers out beneath your crew-cut hair
and the curious way
you explore the universe with your fingertips.
Knowing that time passes
you seize each moment for all its love,
grunting, hugging, reaching for the hidden prize
and pulling a mustache or a stray hair
to make earthly contact from the realm beyond.
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