Lips The Colour Of A Rose (Repost)

A lot of people have been asking me to post pictures onto my blog. Now, since my blog is dedicated solely to my writing, I have been pondering and debating with myself how I would manage to post a relevant picture. About a year ago, I drew a picture based on one of my poems, Lips The Colour Of A Rose and so I have decided to share it with my readers. I hope you like it.

Sometimes it’s the quieter people in life who really make the difference.

This was an essay that I wrote for class. Names have been changed to protect the identities of the concerned people involved in this story. I hope you enjoy it.

Sometimes it’s the quieter people in life who really make the difference.

“Zimbabwe’s Mugabe threatens foreign-owned companies”

“One Syrian family lost 21 in suspected chemical attack”

“Have crimes against humanity been committed in Egypt?”

In a world full of chaos and turmoil, sometimes all I want to do is get away from the noise that is Egypt crumbling and Syria’s civil wars, South African corruption and Zimbabwe’s mysterious election results.

June 11, 2012: I feel the warmth of the mohair against my neck as I zip up my winter coat. Today is the start of the day camp that I will be counselling – a camp for special needs children who desire extra TLC. I am nervous that, perhaps, something may go wrong. What if the child to whom I am assigned does not like me? I fear that my inexperience will render me unfit to handle the needs of this child. These are the fears that inhibit my fragile confidence.

Whilst I am in the car, my mother is talking. The weather – an extra cold front in the already cold months of winter – is her topic of choice. I look out of the window; the overcast day seems a little more heavy than usual. Trees, people walking their dogs and other cars flash past. At the Gauteng speed limit, the world is oblivious to me and my emotions just as I am oblivious to theirs. My mother stops at a red light.

“A bit of money? Some food please,”

I look directly into the face of the beggar. I shake my head apologetically as my mother puts the car into gear and pulls off. The quiet beggar is left behind.

I arrive at the camp and am soon introduced to the child of whom I will be taking care. Immediately I recognise that this is a child who has fears, needs and dreams, not just a special needs case. Together with Michelle, a friend of mine, I will be looking after Adam. With his large, dreamy eyes and clumsy tongue, this boy of five has the clear symptoms of a rare form of Autism. This diagnosis affects his relationships with people, resulting in Adam being a very shy and quiet boy. This condition also affects his ability to function and enjoy the small things that other children his age may enjoy.

For four days we help the children view the world in which they live in a different, happier light. We go ice-skating, to the arcades and to the zoo. On the fourth and final day, while making flowers out of paper, I feel a little hand on my lap. I look up and immediately my heart feels as if it will burst with pride. In the hands of this child is a paper flower, presented to me from him. The joy and protection that I feel for this young child are tangible: I feel myself tear up. I quickly blink the moisture away to avoid frightening the child.

On the way back home, I see the beggar again. We once again stop at the red light and he once again begs for food or money. I am torn because I have nothing to give him and yet if someone like Adam can make me something out of nothing more than paper, then I can give this man something of myself.

I twirl the paper flower around in my fingers. I sense that I have been blind to the opportunities that have been presented to me: I have been given a chance to spend my light my making someone else smile.

I roll the window down and hand the beggar the bright paper flower.

 “I’m sorry sir, but it’s all I have,”

His eyes shine like bouncing marbles. I never knew that a person’s face could literally shine, yet I see genuine joy radiating from his dirty face. His expression shows that he sincerely appreciates this gesture.

The quietest boy, supposedly hindered by his disability, in his simple innocence, has taught me something that I am still reminded of, little more than a year later. The little boy named Adam with Autism had made me realise that sometimes it is the quieter people in life who really make the difference.