He dreams hard court dreams behind those soft hazel eyes. Smooth glides through the lane, leaving defenders struck by the shine of his star reflected in the polished parquet floor. Confident hands clutching the hard dimpled leather of a well fought rebound and the thunderous snaps of a thousand flash bulbs as the game winning shot winks through the hoop…
…but the ball just dribbles off his knee out of bounds, gangly limbs swaying as he lopes after.
Fate winks periodically with the crisp crack of the net, the ball finding its unsuspecting target and a big goofy grin breaks across his mahogany face, all teeth and gums. For a brief moment he is like every other high school boy and MR is not the diagnosis at the end of his name but the salutation preceding it.
His greatest dream is to be a Walmart greeter where he can hup peeple. Even this may be a stretch, at times, but he keeps dreaming. Sometimes I wonder if he is blessed, trapped in his eternal child-like mind, where neverland never ends.
Growing up and putting child like things behind us too often includes our dreaming. We call it being realistic, maybe to make us feel better.
There is little scarier than someone that has stopped dreaming…
…and is still breathing.
What is your dream?