pinwheel

I held the pinwheel up and blew on it so it spun fast enough that the green and blue swirled together.

I turned it quickly toward him but the wind went out of it so fast. Energy moves and flows out to another form, a new expression of itself.

So I resorted to holding it in his line of vision and propelling it with my finger, choppy, but it still caught the light, and sparkled across his face.

He smiled.

On my ride there I wondered if I would be out of my depth. How could I possibly be prepared for this? I did not know what it would be like, look like, sound like, smell like.

I read to him from the SpongeBob book I bought yesterday at the bookstore.

The email said he loved SpongeBob.

My first visit to pediatric hospice.

Two words that we wish would never meet. Pediatric. Hospice.

He listened and looked at the pictures, a glimmer of happiness on his face.  Or at least I hoped that was what it was. He snuggled his SpongeBob stuffed toy with his sock covered hands.

I returned to the pinwheels. This one was stars and stripes. I spun it and it twirled, stalled, I propelled it again.

His respirator hummed, the breath of him, but he could not blow on the pinwheel, or read a book, or speak.

Seventeen years old. A ventilator. A feeding tube. A mother taking respite.

I showed up uncertain, with a SpongeBob book, pinwheels on his windowsill, autumn light catching the spin and shining, movement, stillness, my breath, a ventilator, seventeen, hospice.

How life spins and sparkles, on the air and energy, in a moment, changing form.

We are like pinwheels spinning; beautiful, catching the light, full of energy, radiant, grace in motion, and when it seems we have stopped, stilled, energy is not destroyed, it only changes form.

The truth of that is infinite.

 

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