This Boy

This boy,
Sitting across the dinner table,
telling me his life,
This 23 year-old, lanky boy,
With his swimmer’s build, chiseled face,
and perfect, sparkling-white teeth,
This boy who has lived so much so far,
Is smiling.

This boy,
Who never got the Barbie he always wanted,
Who chose his Easy Bake Oven over baseball,
and his art classes over soccer,
Still smiles.

This boy,
On anti-depressants at age 12,
With a physical tick-- a twitching of his head--until age 15,
Who counted dashes on the highway where ever they drove, for as long as they drove,
This boy somehow is smiling.

But his eyes still hold the pain,
still fear it all returning,
The depression,
The tick,
The checking,
The helpless rage.

This boy smiles,
But not yet with his eyes.


Copyright Ed Ishmael 2009