An Empty Wooden Chair

An empty wooden chair and footstool sit beside Parks and I as he takes down his last bottle of the night. Even at bedtime, he maintains a groggy-eyed awareness at whomever is sitting in that chair feeding his brother. He is growing more and more aware of his surroundings daily. Every day he finds something new. One day its his hand, and he says, "wow, I have a hand. What shall I do with this? What is it made of? Where did it come from? Was it there yesterday?" The next day it is a foot; the next an ear, and all the same questions reoccur in his mind.

Today, it is not that he has found something new. It is that he has lost something new. He is not sure what it is, but I can see in his eyes and expressions that his is trying to sort it out. What should fill the void left in the empty wooden chair to which he gazes? He looks at me off-handedly for some explanation, but I can offer no way of communicating that answer that he seeks. I can not explain to him that his mother and brother will not be back for several days. This is a trip they have taken several times to seek specialists attention for Wyatt, but this is the first time that Parks is beginning to realize that something is askew. It is as watching the whole of human history unfold before my eyes. From the darkness, into the light.