Stephen Wiltshire Questions
Video Number One (60 minutes Australia 07)
This video was entitled 60 minutes Australia 07. In this video Wiltshire was interviewed. He was asked how old he was when he first started drawing and he exclaimed it was between six and eight. They also then documented how at a very early age that he was able to pick up the slightest details and draw pictures of sceneries with no trouble even though he was autistic. During the video they also asked him if he was a genius and he said he was, and was very proud of himself when he was told to memorize a picture of a building from the internet and draw it, and he did it so perfectly it was amazing.
Video Number Two (Rome is easy)
In this video Wiltshire is asked how difficult it is to draw Rome compared to Japan. Wiltshire responded with that Rome was easier to draw compared to Japan, because Japan was very long and lengthy compared to Rome. This is quite ironic in that Rome is not an easy thing to draw.
Video Number Three (NBC News London)
In this video NBC News London documents Stephen as a younger man. They tell the viewer has he has an obsession with American cars, and coincidently he loves the movie Rain Man, which is about a person with autism. Also, they describe how when he drew London’s House of Commons, his barley looked at the building and barely let the pen move off the paper. He also likes to draw the World Trade Centers and the Empire State building. Then they start to show us some of his work. Also, it is probable that his autism lets him to be able to harvest thousands of patterns of scenery at a time. He also has playfulness to his drawings. He also hated Venice because there were no American cars.
Video Number Four (Last Sketches on Tokyo Panorama)
This video pretty much just pans Stephen’s whole drawing of the city of Tokyo. It pans the whole picture and shows Stephen just putting the finishing touches on drawing. They show how detailed the picture is and how precise it is and shows that this is why he is famous for his work.
Most Impressive Drawing
Wiltshire’s most impressive drawing to me is the Chrysler Building. Even though it does not have as much going on as some of the other pictures he has done, the way he has put the picture together in phenomenal. The exact detail of the Chrysler Building is magnificent as well as other elements such as the reflection of the glass of one of the buildings, and the tree branches spread across the side of the building. To me, the way he was able to show the reflection in a way and the detail he put into all his buildings including the Chrysler Building, was simply amazing.
Most Impressive Painting
The most impressive painting to me was Big Ben on a Rainy Evening. This was the most impressive to me because the detail he put into Big Ben and the other buildings is phenomenal. Also, the way he made the ground shimmer like a rain fall has just ended is genius. Also, the orange colored sky gives the idea of an evening sun down. Also, the reflection of Big Ben on the wet ground shows how much detail was put into this painting. Plus, the detail of the traffic light to the telephone booths, all add the amazement of this painting.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Dialouge Poem
A Person’s Two Sides
Her hands cradle the cigarette,
Which keeps her living each day.
The toxic addiction she grasps,
Kills her slowly every puff she takes.
She sips the martini,
The only thing that makes her happy
The toxic liquor slips through her lips,
And pulsates through her veins.
She watches others at her usual marble table,
Viewing the daily movements at their lives.
She isolates herself from everyone,
Dreading and fearing interaction of her peers.
She says the drinking and smoking,
Makes her gorgeous and desirable.
Her massive ears, narrow nose, and grotesque features,
Makes her undesirable too many.
She sits and waits in the antique coffee house chair,
He will come this time and everything will be fine.
In her head she knows he is never coming back,
And nothing will ever soothe the pain he left instilled in her.
Her hands cradle the cigarette,
Which keeps her living each day.
The toxic addiction she grasps,
Kills her slowly every puff she takes.
She sips the martini,
The only thing that makes her happy
The toxic liquor slips through her lips,
And pulsates through her veins.
She watches others at her usual marble table,
Viewing the daily movements at their lives.
She isolates herself from everyone,
Dreading and fearing interaction of her peers.
She says the drinking and smoking,
Makes her gorgeous and desirable.
Her massive ears, narrow nose, and grotesque features,
Makes her undesirable too many.
She sits and waits in the antique coffee house chair,
He will come this time and everything will be fine.
In her head she knows he is never coming back,
And nothing will ever soothe the pain he left instilled in her.
Short Story Number Three
It’s cold and raining. The floor hurts my back. I sit up. My family is still asleep. The train tracks are bumpy, the engine is loud. Everyone else around me is seemingly asleep, but I can not sleep. How can I sleep? I was taken from my home yesterday by these strange men. They came in these big things my Daddy told me were tanks. They were loud and noisy and they hurt my ears. As I saw them from my window, I yelled “Mommy, what are those.”
“What are what Jacob? I’m making dinner for when your Father gets home,” my
Mom says.
“Come here Mom. Look they are so big and loud. What are they? Come here Mommy, what are they?”
“Jacob, what are you talking about?” She starts to walk over to me. The door swings open and hits the wall. My Dad rushes in.
“Jane, grab the kids, the Germans are here!” my Dad screams. My Mom’s aqua blue eyes open wide. The rolling pin falling from her hand.
“Jacob, Rachel, Anne lets go now we need to leave” my Father yells at us. I grab my wooden horse. It’s my favorite toy. My parents got it for me on my birthday a couple of days ago. It is so cool. My Daddy picks me up by my arm. My Mom gets both my sisters and pushes them out the back door. We start to run.
“Mom, where are we going” I say.
“We are going on a trip Jacob. I’ll tell you when we get there,” she says. We keep running. My feet are hurting. I can’t run fast. I have tiny legs. I can’t keep up.
“Jacob, you have to keep up,” my Dad yells to me. I start to try to move faster. Boom! I hear something. I see the smoke in the distance. My Dad says something about shots from the tank being fired. I see other people. They are dressed in gray uniforms. There are some symbols on the sleeves. They see us. They start running at us. We start to run away from them. A shot is fired. My dad falls to the ground. He is yelling in pain and grabbing his leg. My mom stops running and falls to her feat next to my dad. She starts to sob. Someone grabs my shoulder and shoves my face into the ground. It is one of the men in grey suites.
“Stay on the ground and don’t move you piece of crap,” the soldier says to me. He kicks me in the side really hard. It hurts. He does it again and again and again. Other soldiers are doing the same thing to my mother, father, and sisters. My head is throbbing now. The soldier kicks my nose and it starts to bleed. He kicks the side of my head. My vision is blurry now. Head pounding and dizziness setting in, I start to fall asleep.
Now I am here on the train awake while others are asleep. The train stops quickly. It is so quiet. Why did we stop? Where are we? When am I going back home? Mommy never did tell me where we were going. I hear footsteps outside the train. The train cart door slides open.
“Get up you pieces of shit. Stop sleeping and get out of the god damn train,” a man in one of the grey uniforms yells at us. Everyone on the train slowly wakes up and then quickly get off the train. My mommy grabs my hand real tight and drags me off the train with him. Lots and lots of people are all around me. A soldier gets up in front of the group on a stage like the one they have at my sister’s dance studio.
“All of you are here because you do not deserve to live freely. You will work here until we are told that you are now worthy of living in the real world,” says a soldier with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He is tall like the tree in my backyard. I like that tree. I climb up it all the time even though my Mommy tells me not to because I could fall out. I haven’t fallen yet though so I don’t listen to mommy. The man starts to yell real loud again. “Now you will be divided into groups and will be assigned to different areas to get your identification numbers and new uniforms.”
They start to divide us into groups. I am put with Mom, while the rest of my family is in another group. I’m scared. Why are we not with Daddy? Daddy told me he would always be with me and would never leave me.
“Mommy why aren’t we with Daddy? He told me he wouldn’t leave me. What is he doing over there?” I say.
“They are just separating us for now sweetie. We will see them again soon.” I believe her. Mommy is always right and she has never lied to me before. I will see Daddy again soon. My group is then pushed over to a small building where we grab our told to strip of all of our clothes except our under wear. It is so cold outside. Why do I have to take my clothes off? A soldier stops yelling at all of us again.
“Now all of you go stand up against that wall for us to evaluate your physical appearance,” he yells at us. I hold my Mommy’s hand and we line up against the wall.
“Turn around and face the wall!” a soldier screams at us. We all turn around and face the wall. Everything is quiet. Bang! I hear something like a gun shot. Then another and another. My mom then lets go of my hand. I look to my side. My mom falls to her knees. Blood is dripping from the back of her head.
“MOMMY!” I scream in terror. Tears start streaming down my face. “MOMMY wake up please !” I sob between breathes. Another shot is fired. I feel a sharp pain in my back. It hurts real bad. I fall to my hands and knees. I’m coughing up blood now. My head hurts now and so does my heart. I can’t even breathe now. I’m trying to get air, but I can’t get suck it in. Now I can’t even see. I fall to my stomach. Slowly breathing, I lay on the ground gasping for air, trying to yell my Daddy’s name, but no words are coming out. I’m too tired now. Laying here, I’m just going to sleep until I feel better. My Daddy will come get me, because that is what he does. I am just going to sleep for a little bit now.
“What are what Jacob? I’m making dinner for when your Father gets home,” my
Mom says.
“Come here Mom. Look they are so big and loud. What are they? Come here Mommy, what are they?”
“Jacob, what are you talking about?” She starts to walk over to me. The door swings open and hits the wall. My Dad rushes in.
“Jane, grab the kids, the Germans are here!” my Dad screams. My Mom’s aqua blue eyes open wide. The rolling pin falling from her hand.
“Jacob, Rachel, Anne lets go now we need to leave” my Father yells at us. I grab my wooden horse. It’s my favorite toy. My parents got it for me on my birthday a couple of days ago. It is so cool. My Daddy picks me up by my arm. My Mom gets both my sisters and pushes them out the back door. We start to run.
“Mom, where are we going” I say.
“We are going on a trip Jacob. I’ll tell you when we get there,” she says. We keep running. My feet are hurting. I can’t run fast. I have tiny legs. I can’t keep up.
“Jacob, you have to keep up,” my Dad yells to me. I start to try to move faster. Boom! I hear something. I see the smoke in the distance. My Dad says something about shots from the tank being fired. I see other people. They are dressed in gray uniforms. There are some symbols on the sleeves. They see us. They start running at us. We start to run away from them. A shot is fired. My dad falls to the ground. He is yelling in pain and grabbing his leg. My mom stops running and falls to her feat next to my dad. She starts to sob. Someone grabs my shoulder and shoves my face into the ground. It is one of the men in grey suites.
“Stay on the ground and don’t move you piece of crap,” the soldier says to me. He kicks me in the side really hard. It hurts. He does it again and again and again. Other soldiers are doing the same thing to my mother, father, and sisters. My head is throbbing now. The soldier kicks my nose and it starts to bleed. He kicks the side of my head. My vision is blurry now. Head pounding and dizziness setting in, I start to fall asleep.
Now I am here on the train awake while others are asleep. The train stops quickly. It is so quiet. Why did we stop? Where are we? When am I going back home? Mommy never did tell me where we were going. I hear footsteps outside the train. The train cart door slides open.
“Get up you pieces of shit. Stop sleeping and get out of the god damn train,” a man in one of the grey uniforms yells at us. Everyone on the train slowly wakes up and then quickly get off the train. My mommy grabs my hand real tight and drags me off the train with him. Lots and lots of people are all around me. A soldier gets up in front of the group on a stage like the one they have at my sister’s dance studio.
“All of you are here because you do not deserve to live freely. You will work here until we are told that you are now worthy of living in the real world,” says a soldier with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He is tall like the tree in my backyard. I like that tree. I climb up it all the time even though my Mommy tells me not to because I could fall out. I haven’t fallen yet though so I don’t listen to mommy. The man starts to yell real loud again. “Now you will be divided into groups and will be assigned to different areas to get your identification numbers and new uniforms.”
They start to divide us into groups. I am put with Mom, while the rest of my family is in another group. I’m scared. Why are we not with Daddy? Daddy told me he would always be with me and would never leave me.
“Mommy why aren’t we with Daddy? He told me he wouldn’t leave me. What is he doing over there?” I say.
“They are just separating us for now sweetie. We will see them again soon.” I believe her. Mommy is always right and she has never lied to me before. I will see Daddy again soon. My group is then pushed over to a small building where we grab our told to strip of all of our clothes except our under wear. It is so cold outside. Why do I have to take my clothes off? A soldier stops yelling at all of us again.
“Now all of you go stand up against that wall for us to evaluate your physical appearance,” he yells at us. I hold my Mommy’s hand and we line up against the wall.
“Turn around and face the wall!” a soldier screams at us. We all turn around and face the wall. Everything is quiet. Bang! I hear something like a gun shot. Then another and another. My mom then lets go of my hand. I look to my side. My mom falls to her knees. Blood is dripping from the back of her head.
“MOMMY!” I scream in terror. Tears start streaming down my face. “MOMMY wake up please !” I sob between breathes. Another shot is fired. I feel a sharp pain in my back. It hurts real bad. I fall to my hands and knees. I’m coughing up blood now. My head hurts now and so does my heart. I can’t even breathe now. I’m trying to get air, but I can’t get suck it in. Now I can’t even see. I fall to my stomach. Slowly breathing, I lay on the ground gasping for air, trying to yell my Daddy’s name, but no words are coming out. I’m too tired now. Laying here, I’m just going to sleep until I feel better. My Daddy will come get me, because that is what he does. I am just going to sleep for a little bit now.
Short Story Number Two
Pete
“Mr. Atkins, your wife is out of surgery, and she is in recovery. Her procedure came out nicely. You can come in to see her in half an hour, after she is fully coherent again. I’ll come and get you then, if you would like”.
“That would be great Dr. Goldstein. Thank you,” I said. Dr. Goldstein quickly shuffles back behind the surgery wing doors. He walks very hurriedly I’ve noticed. Always seeming to be in a rush to go somewhere, to see someone, to something more important than talking to surgery patient’s visitors. I don’t blame him though. Who wants to talk to people in the waiting room, while they would rather be doing more surgeries, getting more money, from suckers like me? He already has my money, and knows nothing he does will change that. Plus, as we both know very well, he will see me many more times, in this same visitor’s room, over and over again.
It seems like the hospital is another place of work for me. I work here as much as I do at my Los Angeles law firm. It doesn’t matter really where I work though, as long as my associates bring in client after client for the firm, then I really don’t have to do anything. I barely practice law anymore, I merely run a business. A business of blood sucking lawyers who will get every last drop of cash out of each divorce, accident victim, and etc. It sounds terrible, because this isn’t what I stood for before. I stood for what was best for my clientele, to make their lives better. Now, all I seem to stand for in the eyes of others is for the money. To more than an extent now, this is true. The money I bring in feeds the habit that has been slowly growing for five years, consuming my wife’s heart, mind, soul, and literally body. My wife’s addiction to perfection.
What is perfection? It is what each person thinks is perfect to them, in my opinion. Achieving perfection to me is virtually impossible. Why though should anybody try to achieve perfection? If everyone was perfect, there would be no mistakes, no learning from those same mistakes. There would be millions of “perfect” zombie Barbie and Ken dolls walking the street. It would be bland and repetitive seeing absolute perfection over and over again with no diversity. There are people though, who do strive for perfection and will do anything to achieve that. My wife is one of those people. She is obsessed with achieving the perfect body.
When I first met Alison, she was as close to perfection to me, as anyone could possibly get. She was tall, slender, auburn hair down to her shoulders, piercing green eyes that would mesmerize you from miles away. A flight attendant on my business trip, I met Alison while I was flying to Las Vegas. She had me at first glance. Besides her looks, my future wife was smart too. She was trying to earn enough money to go back to school to get her master’s in business. She was care free and full of life. I eventually talked to her on the flight. Eventually we went on a date, which led to me asking her out, my proposal, then our marriage.
Right after our marriage, we moved to Orange County, the home of the rich, young, and the beautiful. This is where my wife, Alison, created her desire for perfection. Constantly surrounded by beauty, she strived to be better than she thought she was. So she started off with one breast lift, which led to a tummy tuck, which led to a nose job. Twenty procedures later, we are here with me lingering in the waiting room once again, to help support my wife on her road to perfection. I have been spending pay check after pay check for years and years, to help my wife pursue the evil she calls perfection. Nothing is ever good enough for her it seems. Now every time Alison comes out, I don’t even notice it’s her, because of all the changes that have made here a blow up doll. She looks like a fool now, a clown even; but I cannot tell her that. The evil that has possessed her has become too big for me to try to fix. If I did tell her what I thought, I would be afraid of what would happen. It could be too much for her to handle, who knows what she would do to herself to achieve perfection even more that she already has. What I still don’t understand is, why go through such pain to achieve perfection that’s fake.
Colleen
He is lying there. Innocent and calm, he sleeps peacefully. This is the first time he has slept for more than an hour at a time in two months. I hear a knock on the door. I whip my head around.
“Mrs. Cook, how are you?” says Dr. Goldstein.
“I’m fine thank you,” I say.
“I just wanted to check on you and Michael. He seems to have responded well to the surgery. He is looking better and better everyday it seems. I am thinking he only has a few more to go until he is virtually looking like himself again”.
“Yeah, he is looking better every procedure” I say.
“Well I let you two have some time by yourselves. I’ll come check on you guys later”. He walks hurriedly out of the room. I turn back around and look at my son again. I lied. He doesn’t look better every time he has surgery. To me he will never look like the same eight year old I remember seeing everyday up until a couple of months ago. His bright blue eyes, wavy brown hair, his little dimples, and slightly oversized ears are only some of the things that I remember. Smiling brightly every morning he would say “Hi Mom! I love you”. Always so happy and full of energy, he would get everything possible out of every day.
Then the accident happened. He was on his way home from school, his first day in the second grade. He was so excited at the bus stop that day. He made me go out with him to the bus stop an hour early that day because he didn’t want the bus driver to think he wasn’t going to the first day of school.
“Mom, if he doesn’t see me get on the bus the first day, he will think that I am a bad kid who never goes to school and then he will never pick me up. Then how will I get to school?” he said to me.
“Michael, I don’t think the bus driver will ever think you’re a bad student or that if you miss the bus one day that you never go to school” I said.
“Mommmmm, how do you know that?” he asked me.
“I know because I am your mom, and I know everything. How do you think I knew you wanted a Power Rangers back pack for school this year without even asking you?” I said.
“Ohhh. Well I still want to go out to the bus stop early because I want to make sure Mom because you never know, and plus what is more fun than waiting for the bus with all my friends on it”.
“I don’t know Michael,” I chuckled, “that does sound pretty cool”.
“Oh Mom it is! It’s the best thing ever. Don’t tell dad though, because I told him his meatloaf was the best thing ever. He might get sad, and I don’t want daddy sad, so please don’t tell him,” he said with his big blue eyes staring up at me.
“I promise,” I told him.
I got the call later that day. I was waiting outside our house at the bus stop wondering where the bus was. My cell phone rang.
“Hello”, I said.
“Hi, is Colleen Cook there”, a voice said.
“This is she, what can I do for you,” I said.
“Mrs. Cook, I’m sorry I have some terrible news for you”.
I soon found out that Michael was on his way home on the bus, when the engine exploded. The bus bursted into bright red and orange flames. Everyone died, except Michael. Although he survived, my son was burned from head to toe, until he was not even recognizable. Tears streamed down my face for days and days. The face I saw everyday that was bright and happy was burned and distorted. He had no hair, no dimples, nothing resembling my son. His bubbly personality has faded along with his confidence and happiness. Now in the morning all he says is “Mommy, my body hurts. Please make it stop; I don’t want to feel how I look anymore. I just want to see my friends at school again”. Whenever he says that, I cry. I cry for hour and hours. Every night I lie in bed, not sleeping, just staring at the ceiling. I wonder: Why has this happened to him? to me?, to his dad? Why has such a young, perfect child been put through so much? Why does he have to suffer?
Now two months and fifteen plastic surgeries later, Michael is still in pain. He goes through the pain of the burns, of the surgeries, and everything else. Michael was the perfect son on the outside and inside. I’ve been told that many people get plastic surgery to obtain perfection, but how is that true, if it can’t even help my son feel and look normal again?
“Mr. Atkins, your wife is out of surgery, and she is in recovery. Her procedure came out nicely. You can come in to see her in half an hour, after she is fully coherent again. I’ll come and get you then, if you would like”.
“That would be great Dr. Goldstein. Thank you,” I said. Dr. Goldstein quickly shuffles back behind the surgery wing doors. He walks very hurriedly I’ve noticed. Always seeming to be in a rush to go somewhere, to see someone, to something more important than talking to surgery patient’s visitors. I don’t blame him though. Who wants to talk to people in the waiting room, while they would rather be doing more surgeries, getting more money, from suckers like me? He already has my money, and knows nothing he does will change that. Plus, as we both know very well, he will see me many more times, in this same visitor’s room, over and over again.
It seems like the hospital is another place of work for me. I work here as much as I do at my Los Angeles law firm. It doesn’t matter really where I work though, as long as my associates bring in client after client for the firm, then I really don’t have to do anything. I barely practice law anymore, I merely run a business. A business of blood sucking lawyers who will get every last drop of cash out of each divorce, accident victim, and etc. It sounds terrible, because this isn’t what I stood for before. I stood for what was best for my clientele, to make their lives better. Now, all I seem to stand for in the eyes of others is for the money. To more than an extent now, this is true. The money I bring in feeds the habit that has been slowly growing for five years, consuming my wife’s heart, mind, soul, and literally body. My wife’s addiction to perfection.
What is perfection? It is what each person thinks is perfect to them, in my opinion. Achieving perfection to me is virtually impossible. Why though should anybody try to achieve perfection? If everyone was perfect, there would be no mistakes, no learning from those same mistakes. There would be millions of “perfect” zombie Barbie and Ken dolls walking the street. It would be bland and repetitive seeing absolute perfection over and over again with no diversity. There are people though, who do strive for perfection and will do anything to achieve that. My wife is one of those people. She is obsessed with achieving the perfect body.
When I first met Alison, she was as close to perfection to me, as anyone could possibly get. She was tall, slender, auburn hair down to her shoulders, piercing green eyes that would mesmerize you from miles away. A flight attendant on my business trip, I met Alison while I was flying to Las Vegas. She had me at first glance. Besides her looks, my future wife was smart too. She was trying to earn enough money to go back to school to get her master’s in business. She was care free and full of life. I eventually talked to her on the flight. Eventually we went on a date, which led to me asking her out, my proposal, then our marriage.
Right after our marriage, we moved to Orange County, the home of the rich, young, and the beautiful. This is where my wife, Alison, created her desire for perfection. Constantly surrounded by beauty, she strived to be better than she thought she was. So she started off with one breast lift, which led to a tummy tuck, which led to a nose job. Twenty procedures later, we are here with me lingering in the waiting room once again, to help support my wife on her road to perfection. I have been spending pay check after pay check for years and years, to help my wife pursue the evil she calls perfection. Nothing is ever good enough for her it seems. Now every time Alison comes out, I don’t even notice it’s her, because of all the changes that have made here a blow up doll. She looks like a fool now, a clown even; but I cannot tell her that. The evil that has possessed her has become too big for me to try to fix. If I did tell her what I thought, I would be afraid of what would happen. It could be too much for her to handle, who knows what she would do to herself to achieve perfection even more that she already has. What I still don’t understand is, why go through such pain to achieve perfection that’s fake.
Colleen
He is lying there. Innocent and calm, he sleeps peacefully. This is the first time he has slept for more than an hour at a time in two months. I hear a knock on the door. I whip my head around.
“Mrs. Cook, how are you?” says Dr. Goldstein.
“I’m fine thank you,” I say.
“I just wanted to check on you and Michael. He seems to have responded well to the surgery. He is looking better and better everyday it seems. I am thinking he only has a few more to go until he is virtually looking like himself again”.
“Yeah, he is looking better every procedure” I say.
“Well I let you two have some time by yourselves. I’ll come check on you guys later”. He walks hurriedly out of the room. I turn back around and look at my son again. I lied. He doesn’t look better every time he has surgery. To me he will never look like the same eight year old I remember seeing everyday up until a couple of months ago. His bright blue eyes, wavy brown hair, his little dimples, and slightly oversized ears are only some of the things that I remember. Smiling brightly every morning he would say “Hi Mom! I love you”. Always so happy and full of energy, he would get everything possible out of every day.
Then the accident happened. He was on his way home from school, his first day in the second grade. He was so excited at the bus stop that day. He made me go out with him to the bus stop an hour early that day because he didn’t want the bus driver to think he wasn’t going to the first day of school.
“Mom, if he doesn’t see me get on the bus the first day, he will think that I am a bad kid who never goes to school and then he will never pick me up. Then how will I get to school?” he said to me.
“Michael, I don’t think the bus driver will ever think you’re a bad student or that if you miss the bus one day that you never go to school” I said.
“Mommmmm, how do you know that?” he asked me.
“I know because I am your mom, and I know everything. How do you think I knew you wanted a Power Rangers back pack for school this year without even asking you?” I said.
“Ohhh. Well I still want to go out to the bus stop early because I want to make sure Mom because you never know, and plus what is more fun than waiting for the bus with all my friends on it”.
“I don’t know Michael,” I chuckled, “that does sound pretty cool”.
“Oh Mom it is! It’s the best thing ever. Don’t tell dad though, because I told him his meatloaf was the best thing ever. He might get sad, and I don’t want daddy sad, so please don’t tell him,” he said with his big blue eyes staring up at me.
“I promise,” I told him.
I got the call later that day. I was waiting outside our house at the bus stop wondering where the bus was. My cell phone rang.
“Hello”, I said.
“Hi, is Colleen Cook there”, a voice said.
“This is she, what can I do for you,” I said.
“Mrs. Cook, I’m sorry I have some terrible news for you”.
I soon found out that Michael was on his way home on the bus, when the engine exploded. The bus bursted into bright red and orange flames. Everyone died, except Michael. Although he survived, my son was burned from head to toe, until he was not even recognizable. Tears streamed down my face for days and days. The face I saw everyday that was bright and happy was burned and distorted. He had no hair, no dimples, nothing resembling my son. His bubbly personality has faded along with his confidence and happiness. Now in the morning all he says is “Mommy, my body hurts. Please make it stop; I don’t want to feel how I look anymore. I just want to see my friends at school again”. Whenever he says that, I cry. I cry for hour and hours. Every night I lie in bed, not sleeping, just staring at the ceiling. I wonder: Why has this happened to him? to me?, to his dad? Why has such a young, perfect child been put through so much? Why does he have to suffer?
Now two months and fifteen plastic surgeries later, Michael is still in pain. He goes through the pain of the burns, of the surgeries, and everything else. Michael was the perfect son on the outside and inside. I’ve been told that many people get plastic surgery to obtain perfection, but how is that true, if it can’t even help my son feel and look normal again?
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