The quiet child looks around him and sees he is lacking. Why is he different, so alone from all children laughing?
The other children’s Eyes flush with nurture and things and food?
Teachers look towards their charges, sees a line, and knows the quiet child is in darkness.
He lowers his sight from hers before she knows to segregate, to ignore, like a mother wolf seeing the pup too weak to live. This child knows his wrong, the knawing of his gut, the hunger, the fear, his likely path to short life and death.
He fills the pain of knowing with things not missed, tearing strips of pretty paper here, a floor penny there, whatever morsel can pass his tongue to quiet that pain down there.
The quiet child knows his world, is not slick and fine, but the grit in his shoes and shirt tells him to keep things inside. Do not complain, must adapt to survive!
Quiet in your stance, quiet and alive.
This child learns his path is his, encouraged by a special few:
Here a shy science teacher with a stutter and a pretty church lady plays old 78 records for him to share there a massive music teacher with a heart of gold, tries to propel him.
Now a strong man wants to give him a chance, pays him a few pennies, but leads and encourages.
Later, a laughing black man, with arms like a titan and a laugh that is music to the heavens.
Finally, a military man treats him like a brother, for reasons lost to time.
Such is the life of the Quiet child, lonely, hungry, lost to grow, to learn, to age, grasping on the gentleness of those that tried.
Wrinkled in the path, turns to God to give thanks for those surrounding him.
The quiet grown child, Strong now,quietly helps the lacking others round him, and life goes on.