we had both been thinking that the little girl playing in the sand in the shadow of our parasol was beautiful — her small face of such an inherent grace that i didn’t notice that i never saw her walking — but that’s a thought that we only shared in the train back to paris.
– the way i’m sitting isn’t that good for my hips, she explained, i should sit down like…
she started to move slowly, but she knew exactly what she was doing, she first took support on her hands, and then moved her tiny legs, concentrated on her effort and i guess we both saw how hard it seemed to her. you proposed some help, very gently, but she proudly said no and went on until she was in the right position.
– that way is better for me.
suddenly, i felt like holding her in my arms and tell her hey, you’re gonna be alright, as if i could ever protect her, as if i could ever be someone to tell her this, as if she would ever need me to do this.
but it’s only while we were absorbed by her image and the impression she made on us, watching the sky turn to gold and to red, that i could tell what i had really wanted at that moment.
she would never need my words of care as much as i would selfishly and helplessly have needed her to tell me hey, i’m alright and you’re doing just fine.
never look at kids like they can’t notice how you’re looking at them, sometimes they know how to handle things much better than us grown-ups ever would, sometimes they slap you in the face, just by saying i’m handicapped the same way they would say i’ve got a doll.
