Three months left. That was all. And it was not even a whole three months. It was two months and twenty nine days. He had been counting. Every morning, since that visit to the doctor, he had been counting. And tomorrow, it would just be two months and twenty eight days. And then, in the end, he would have to leave his son. Alone. There was clearly nothing left to do, but pray. And cry.
They were on a bus, his son and himself, going no place in particular, on the sunniest of spring days. The boy almost looked normal, except that his eyes seemed a little uncoordinated, somewhat unfocused. But you had to look at him closely to notice. The way he acted, however, gave his condition away. He looked ten, perhaps eleven, but he was most decidedly too childlike for his age. “Fire truck!” he would say, identifying the red vehicle parked in its station. “Dog!” he exclaimed, pointing at a morning jogger’s pet on a leash. “Flag!” he said, looking up at a waiving banner, glancing at his father for reassurance and acknowledgement that he had identified correctly.
The boy had his father’s visage. Lines and wrinkles on the older man’s face camouflaged the similarity, but the boy’s eyes whispered of his father’s. Assenting with a nod and a smile, the father thought back to a moment just half a year ago, when all hope was snatched from him.
