I started a new job on Monday. It was the first time in my little
boy’s life that I wasn’t there when he woke up. Gabriel was fine. I was
fine. After 2,050 days of constant companionship, the apron strings are
so frayed, they basically cut themselves.
I’m doing maintenance work in a cemetery. It’s the first time in my solidly middle class, Catholic schooled, pampered, pretty princess existence that I’ve worked more with my hands than my head. So far I find it liberating. I’m not afraid of the shells of former people that lie beneath the ground. I believe in the soul. I believe that it goes somewhere far better when these Earth bound bodies of ours fail, however at the first sniff of Zombies I’ll be outta there so fast people will wonder when Usain Bolt came to town.
My mind is free to wander as my hands care for the graveyard grounds. As you probably imagine I spend a lot of time thinking about Gabriel. And Zombies. When humankind has created the reanimating vaccine or street drug or power drink or reaches the level of atmospheric radiation that starts the invasion, my son will need extra protection.
No, not because he can’t see – that will be an asset. He’ll hear and smell the Walkers coming before anyone else in our motley group of survivors. He’ll blindly lead us to water, hear huntable animals tip-toeing through the brush and regale us with his repertoire of songs and knock-knock jokes. I’ll arm him with a rapier and have him spin in circles in the unlucky event that we get swarmed. He doesn’t get dizzy and won’t be visually scarred by the pile of twitching corpses at his feet.
He’ll need the extra protection from other survivors. He shambles. He runs like a penguin. His gait is cautious and slow and his hands are usually outstretched. Compound this with the fact that under his prosthetic lens his eye is a vivid red tangle of capillaries in a mass of eye tissue that used to belong to someone else. He could easily be mistaken for a minimuncher. It will take constant vigilance on my part and an, I’M NOT A ZOMBIE, T-shirt to keep him safe.
Early on, in this blog, I mentioned that we were on a plane on the way back from Cali, Columbia. We went there last year so Gabriel could have an eye transplant. I agonized over this decision. The eye they took could still see a little light. It was also plagued with Glaucoma and not growing properly. While there, his brilliant doctor discovered that it was also drying out and causing him increasing discomfort every day. He never complained. He’s my hero.
Two days, post-op, we were in the Mall. It was one of the few places we could walk to from the hotel and we happily whiled away our days sipping oatmeal drink, procured from the mall supermarket, learning to affect flawless British accents and singing made-up songs about farting (in flawless British accents). He couldn’t yet wear his lens, only a clear conformer that gave his Zombie eye and extra special glassy sheen.
During one memorable trip to the supermarket I was holding him, he was resting his head on my shoulder and we were trying make the impossible choice between Movie Theatre style or Kettle corn, when I heard an elderly voice say, “Oh, lindo! (Oh, cuteness!)” An older woman had snuck up behind us and was looking at the child in my arms.
Gabriel raised his head and turned toward the sound of her voice. Sloooowly. I doubt it was intentional, but it took several heartbeats for him to completely turn his head, affording her the full effect of his mismatched eyes. She clutched her oversized purse to her chest, made an ancient Waunan Indian hand gesture for warding off evil and scuttled backward faster than I would have expected from a woman her age. She whispered, ‘Dios Madre’ and hedged her way out of the snack aisle.
Maybe it was stress, maybe it was the effects of Columbia’s amazing coffee, but I just started laughing. Loudly and inappropriately. Gasping, snorting laughter bounced off the junk food and was soon joined by the deep belly laugh of my boy. I noticed the supermarket staff eying us warily and we abandoned our popcorn mission completely, chuckled our way out of the store. I noticed the woman who’d cause my mirth staring in abject horror at us on the way out. The expression on her face was priceless, I tried (and failed) to describe it to Gabriel when I was capable of speech much later.
Yeah, I told him what happened. I told him what his eye looks like and that there are some who will only judge you by the things you show on the surface. I told him that those people are worthless and shallow and usually quite simple. While speaking to him I had another epiphany. My son will never be one of those people. He has no choice in life but to judge individuals on the worth of their souls alone. It’s an amazing opportunity, maybe even a blessing in disguise.
I’m doing maintenance work in a cemetery. It’s the first time in my solidly middle class, Catholic schooled, pampered, pretty princess existence that I’ve worked more with my hands than my head. So far I find it liberating. I’m not afraid of the shells of former people that lie beneath the ground. I believe in the soul. I believe that it goes somewhere far better when these Earth bound bodies of ours fail, however at the first sniff of Zombies I’ll be outta there so fast people will wonder when Usain Bolt came to town.
My mind is free to wander as my hands care for the graveyard grounds. As you probably imagine I spend a lot of time thinking about Gabriel. And Zombies. When humankind has created the reanimating vaccine or street drug or power drink or reaches the level of atmospheric radiation that starts the invasion, my son will need extra protection.
No, not because he can’t see – that will be an asset. He’ll hear and smell the Walkers coming before anyone else in our motley group of survivors. He’ll blindly lead us to water, hear huntable animals tip-toeing through the brush and regale us with his repertoire of songs and knock-knock jokes. I’ll arm him with a rapier and have him spin in circles in the unlucky event that we get swarmed. He doesn’t get dizzy and won’t be visually scarred by the pile of twitching corpses at his feet.
He’ll need the extra protection from other survivors. He shambles. He runs like a penguin. His gait is cautious and slow and his hands are usually outstretched. Compound this with the fact that under his prosthetic lens his eye is a vivid red tangle of capillaries in a mass of eye tissue that used to belong to someone else. He could easily be mistaken for a minimuncher. It will take constant vigilance on my part and an, I’M NOT A ZOMBIE, T-shirt to keep him safe.
Early on, in this blog, I mentioned that we were on a plane on the way back from Cali, Columbia. We went there last year so Gabriel could have an eye transplant. I agonized over this decision. The eye they took could still see a little light. It was also plagued with Glaucoma and not growing properly. While there, his brilliant doctor discovered that it was also drying out and causing him increasing discomfort every day. He never complained. He’s my hero.
Two days, post-op, we were in the Mall. It was one of the few places we could walk to from the hotel and we happily whiled away our days sipping oatmeal drink, procured from the mall supermarket, learning to affect flawless British accents and singing made-up songs about farting (in flawless British accents). He couldn’t yet wear his lens, only a clear conformer that gave his Zombie eye and extra special glassy sheen.
During one memorable trip to the supermarket I was holding him, he was resting his head on my shoulder and we were trying make the impossible choice between Movie Theatre style or Kettle corn, when I heard an elderly voice say, “Oh, lindo! (Oh, cuteness!)” An older woman had snuck up behind us and was looking at the child in my arms.
Gabriel raised his head and turned toward the sound of her voice. Sloooowly. I doubt it was intentional, but it took several heartbeats for him to completely turn his head, affording her the full effect of his mismatched eyes. She clutched her oversized purse to her chest, made an ancient Waunan Indian hand gesture for warding off evil and scuttled backward faster than I would have expected from a woman her age. She whispered, ‘Dios Madre’ and hedged her way out of the snack aisle.
Maybe it was stress, maybe it was the effects of Columbia’s amazing coffee, but I just started laughing. Loudly and inappropriately. Gasping, snorting laughter bounced off the junk food and was soon joined by the deep belly laugh of my boy. I noticed the supermarket staff eying us warily and we abandoned our popcorn mission completely, chuckled our way out of the store. I noticed the woman who’d cause my mirth staring in abject horror at us on the way out. The expression on her face was priceless, I tried (and failed) to describe it to Gabriel when I was capable of speech much later.
Yeah, I told him what happened. I told him what his eye looks like and that there are some who will only judge you by the things you show on the surface. I told him that those people are worthless and shallow and usually quite simple. While speaking to him I had another epiphany. My son will never be one of those people. He has no choice in life but to judge individuals on the worth of their souls alone. It’s an amazing opportunity, maybe even a blessing in disguise.
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