Tiney Blue Stars

"I saw the stars and they wer tiney blue and sparkly and prity and I saw red lights on bildens."

The question was, "What do you see when it's dark out?"  Donald had written this down, asking for help in spelling the word "lights."  He had come in earlier that week, telling me that his leg hurt where his cousin hit him; he was able to pull up his pants leg to his lower thigh where the purple imprint of a belt buckle raised a welt.  How old is your cousin?  One.  He's one and he's mean.  Now, there is no way a one year old could wield a belt for the buckle to land that high up, pointing downward, with such impact.

I sent him to the nurse and called his home, which was a phone number connected with an aunt who would then go down the street to find the father.  The aunt was primarily responsible for Donald, and had little love for him.  He came in unwashed, with a smile and was ADHD, couldn't stay in his seat or focus long enough to stay with a sentence.  He was adorable and drove most teachers nuts, including me.

"Oh, that was Donald's cousin who did that, he's a terror and hit Donald with the belt.  Ha ha.  We put ice on it."  Age?  One.  Of course.  Collaborating with the nurse's examination, authorities were called to go check on things; Donald came back later that week to report that his aunt was treating him nicer and feeding him.  He had difficulty reading, wanted to be loved, and was crazy about his addled father; an older man who loved his son but was lost himself.

Clothing that I gave Donald would get taken by another at home, school supplies that I brought would be given to the other kids; when you have fortune on the street, you share what you have with everyone.  He was under my feet, constantly close;  I ate with my class down in the cafeteria, Donald always wanted to know what was in my lunchbox.  Rice and squid.  Wanna try it?  He was game for anything.  Can I have your grapes?  He often didn't know where he would be sleeping that night.

Donald couldn't draw, but could make a game or a toy out of paper.  He folded notebook paper into a cell phone to call his posse to meet him on the corner, he wrote I love yous to all the girls in class, commendable in that he kept it to one girlfriend at a time.  And that is where his poetry began, in his scrawly, misspelled Valentines.  The boy had observational skills and expression, more than the others, but he didn't want to write, didn't see the value in it.

I can only hope that the constant repetition to him that he had a gifted way with words will serve him in a manner other than impressing the ladies.  It has been five years since his family moved away, and he left the school where I worked.  Cleaning off the notes from my refrigerator this day found his small missive, the answer to what he saw in the dark; he knew enough to look up at the night sky, to see the city buildings blinking red to warn low aircraft.  It was a note, a story of his heart.  He had touched mine.

If you have a place to sleep where you are warm and safe, count your blessings; if you are with people who love and care for you, that adds dimension to the story.  But if you are alone, unsure of what night brings, think of my little Donald who endured adult anger and indifference, but still found it worthwhile to remember what the stars looked like.  Sleep well, dear innocent.