Little Helen is six years old. She was born with Down Syndrome and has become progressively worse.
I make it a point to walk past her apartment building each morning and wave to her, for she is almost always at the window.
One morning the window was up; there was no screen, and Helen had set a clay flower pot on the sill. "I grow pretty flower," she said. She planted the bulb too deeply and added no water, and I was sure what would probably happen.
* * * * *
The days passed. One morning Helen stood in the window, crying.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Flower not growing."
I thought quickly and said:
"Someday, sweetie. Someday your flower will grow and be beautiful." I silently asked for forgiveness for my hasty white lie.
She nodded and smiled.
"Someday," she said. "Someday beautiful flower come and I be happy."
I make it a point to walk past her apartment building each morning and wave to her, for she is almost always at the window.
One morning the window was up; there was no screen, and Helen had set a clay flower pot on the sill. "I grow pretty flower," she said. She planted the bulb too deeply and added no water, and I was sure what would probably happen.
* * * * *
The days passed. One morning Helen stood in the window, crying.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Flower not growing."
I thought quickly and said:
"Someday, sweetie. Someday your flower will grow and be beautiful." I silently asked for forgiveness for my hasty white lie.
She nodded and smiled.
"Someday," she said. "Someday beautiful flower come and I be happy."
