snow sky –
At the age
of three months, my son is sitting in his plastic infant
tiny fevered brow –
Our physician confirms this is abnormal and sends us off to an orthopedic specialist. There are no bone structure problems. He talks about posture and prescribes “Dennis Brown Boots”. To me this is a foreign language, but I bundle him up and march onward to the Physio Department of our local hospital.
on duty smiles and leads us to a partitioned area and asks me to sit.
is young, early twenties, and petite. From stacked shelves of equipment,
she laboriously drags down two huge cardboard boxes filled to overflowing
with pairs of boots, all sizes. She sets them on the floor, one on
either side of my chair. The shoes are strangely shaped: totally
straight with the front ends cut out, high-topped, and all a shade of smooth
brown or dark tan. She chatters on about catching the problem
Kneeling, she chooses a size of boots and fits them to my son’s feet. His stockings protrude only slightly from the cut out part, for she’s left him room to grow. Her hands are quick and adept, as if she’s done this many times. This reassures me. As she fastens the straps over the laces, she keeps up a steady flow of conversation. She makes small gooing sounds and my son watches her and stays still.
When she finally stands, she takes him from my lap and lays him on his back on the exam table. She asks me to hand her the bar and fasteners. On the sole of each boot are threaded prongs in an arc. As I stand beside her, she shows me how to fit the bar over the correct prong on one foot. She explains that the specialist has prescribed outward, ninety-degree angles while he sleeps each night. She secures the bar with a fastener she calls a wing nut, then she picks up his other foot.
I realize this is quite an angle, but she turns the foot slowly and places
the bar over the proper notch. She is still babbling to my son in
incoherent, soothing sounds and I commend her abilities.
autumn afternoon . . .
straight leaf rows –
size eleven boots –
his words end –
full of stars
Now, at sun-up, I sit to write the song . . . endless questions about
why, while outside yesterday's garden project remains unfinished.
deep hole . . .
inside edges lined
Back to In The Light: Haibun
Take me to Main Contents page