Fingers in Hair; Youthful Diary Entry by Francis DiClemente
Fingers in Hair
Source: Pixabay
I run my fingers through
my autistic son’s tangled mop of brown hair
as he lies next to me in bed.
It’s 4:30 a.m. and we can’t fall asleep.
He waves his hands in front of his eyes,
making stimming motions,
and I imagine his head slamming
against the windshield,
a spiderweb crack forming
in the sheet of glass and
blood pouring from
an opening in his skull.
I press my hand to his head
to try to stop the bleeding,
but the crimson liquid
slips through my fingers
and stains the carpet
and fabric seat covers.
I am reminded of a
Gospel passage, Luke 12:7 (NIV):
“Indeed, the very hairs
of your head are all numbered.”
I hold some of my son’s hairs
in my hand and realize
I cannot prevent a
car accident, fall, gunshot
or disease from killing my son.
I can’t prolong or preserve his life.
I can only love him while he still lives.
His hands whip in front of his face,
and he prattles phrases
only he understands.
I bury my fingers deeper
into the mound of his hair and whisper,
“Come on now, sleepy time Colin.”
Youthful Diary Entry
Source: Francis DiClemente
Craniopharyngioma gave me
an excuse for being unattractive.
I had a problem inside my head.
I wasn’t my fault
I stood four foot eight
and looked like I was
twelve years old instead of eighteen—
and then nineteen
instead of twenty-four.
I couldn’t be blamed for
my testosterone-deprived body
straddling the line
between male and female.
The brain tumor
spurred questions
about my appearance,
aroused ridicule
and provoked sympathy.
I heard voices whispering:
“Guess how old that guy is?”
“Is that a dude or a chick?”
And, “He’s done OK for himself
considering his health problems.”
And while I waited for my
body to mature, to fall in line
and to achieve normal progression,
I remember wishing the surgeons
had left the scalpel
inside my skull
before they closed me up,
knitting the stitches
from ear to ear.
I prayed the scalpel
would twist and twirl
while I slept at night—
carving my brain
like a jack-o’-lantern,
splitting the left and right
hemispheres,
and effacing the memory
of my existence.
Author Bio: Francis DiClemente is the author of six poetry collections, most recently Outward Arrangements: Poems (2021). He lives in Syracuse, New York, and his blog can be found at francisdiclemente.com.
