A bubble of spit dribbles down
Jesus’ chin and soaks into his already damp bib as he struggles to fit his hand
around the large rock I hold in mine. His right hand opens and closes in frustration,
mimicking the motion his left hand refuses to make.
It’s the biggest rock he’s ever
tried to pick up during our exercises and although he’s struggling, I know he
can do it.
The soft-ball size stone is
actually a chunk of brick made of dirt and sand that’s fallen off the knee high
wall of an unfinished house where Jesus sits.
So really, it’s not as heavy as it
looks.
The challenge is for Jesus to use
his hand correctly.
We’ve only been using small stones
for this exercise and he’s figured out a way to pick them up only using his
fingers. He avoids using his thumb by pressing it into his palm.
His clever method technically gets the job done but he’s
not gaining much in terms of motor skills.
He does get points for critical
thinking.
I smile when he realizes the chunk
of brick renders his four-fingered move useless.
He looks up and me and shakes his
head, No.
“Yes, you can.”
No,
he shakes his head again, smiling.
“Yes.”
He lowers his head and stares
intently at his left hand. It shakes as he forces it open, his thumb jerking as
it slowly begins to stretch. He places his thumb on the brick first and then
wraps his fingers around it. His fingertips turn white under the pressure of
his grip and he gradually lifts the rock out of my hand. The rock hovers in the
air for a few seconds before it slips out of his grasp and thuds in the sand at
our feet.
“See.” I say.
He raises his arms into the air, laughs and nods his head, Yea!
I pick him up off the recently built
wall and sit him down on a nearby boulder to replace his shoe which I took off
for his foot exercise.
The small community on the sandy hillside
above Cambio Puente has changed a lot over the past months. Many families are
in the middle of replacing their bamboo and estera
houses with brick and mortar, and after seeing the aftermath of the fire in Chimbote, I’m glad. I
just hope their squatters’ rights are honored and they’re not building in vain.
Jesus has changed a lot too. His hair
is cut short and he’s gotten taller, making him look more like a young boy than
a wild, long-haired toddler.
And he’s more curious now than
ever.
I shake the sand out of his shoe
before slipping it back onto his foot. It isn’t long after I start tying his
shoe that he’s trying to grab the laces from my hands. He points to the laces
then puts his hands on his chest, I want
to do it.
“Okay, here you go,” I say as I
hand them over.
After four or five tries and a few
demonstrations, he’s able to get the “over-under” part down. I hear footsteps
crunching in the sand nearby and look up to see his aunt walking by, smiling
and shaking her head at what I’m showing Jesus. Now that this part of Cambio
Puente is developing, some of Jesus’ extended family has moved to the area, meaning
that I never find him home alone anymore.
I congratulate him for doing so
well on his first try and quickly finish the job.
You’d think I was Harry Houdini the
way he stares wide-eyed at my hands. He smiles and nods, That was cool.
In that moment, I realize how
fortunate I am and also how much I take for granted. I’ve never realized how
meaningful a simple act like being able to tie your own shoes can be. How much
independence it gives you.
For his last exercise we sit on the
boulder, side by side, and I begin to peel a mandarin. He gets excited and
starts to reach for the fruit.
“Hey…” I say blocking his greedy hands with my elbow, and he quickly
arranges his legs and puts his hands on his lap.
I hand him the first slice which he
tries to grab with his right hand.
“Not that hand, Jesus. You already
know.”
He smiles sheepishly knowing he
wouldn’t get away with it. He carefully takes the slice in his left hand but
drops it into the sand. The second and third slices follow suit.
“We’re not going to eat any of it.”
I say and we both laugh.
His laughter is quickly replaced by
a look of determination.
The fourth slice passes from his
left hand, to his right and then into his mouth.
Juice squirts onto my arm as he
chews. He laughs. Juice, spit and what looks like bits of his oatmeal breakfast
run down my arm.
Without thinking, I wipe it onto
his pant leg.
As he sits, happily eating another
slice, I struggle with the fact that I wiped the juice onto his pants and not
my own. The image of my sweaty Saturday morning of washing clothes flashes
through my mind.
Still, I feel angry at myself, and
more than a little guilty. I don’t know why. I know it isn’t that big of a
deal. It’s just…moments like these make me realize what a long way I’ve got to
go.
Later, before I realize what he’s
doing, he hugs my knee. His soggy, oatmeal covered bib leaves a large slimy patch on
my jeans.
I have to laugh.
I walk him back to his house where
his aunt and younger sister sit de-kernelling dried corn. I look back once as I
make my way down the hill to catch a car headed for Chimbote. Jesus, who is standing at the brick
wall, waves with his left hand.
