17  [JUST BEFORE]

“¡Dios mio!”

Juanita startled at the face right up in hers, his breath hot on her cheek.

“Jesús! Por favor, don’t do that, mi hijo”.

Seven-year-old Jesús looked her straight in the eye, and handed her something. His gaze continued, well after she felt the object in her hand. She couldn’t believe it; her son had not interacted with another human in over 4 years, and that was a melt-down-screaming fit, when la doctora diagnosed severe autism, with the sincere apology that the Mexican healthcare system in this sector has absolutely no help for him…

Life was hard. Her marido ran away to another woman with normal kids. Finding work in this village, where she could keep her son close-at-hand, was nearly impossible. Couldn’t attend school, and the government can’t help. The Protestant church pressed her to sit in their loud, long services every night where the people smiled at her son like some sort of mutant, the trade-off was the occasional bag of dry beans, rice and canned goods…

Now, here he was, her son was interacting with her.

Her son, whom she loved with years of immense sacrifice and hard work, simply entoned “Muchas gracias, mami.”

Juanita could hardly bear it. Jesús had never spoken… ever. She had assumed he never would… and now…

She could barely see him through the tears that burned her eyes. His gaze was… almost kind… by human reasoning…

They stood, gaze locked together, suspended in time, like only a mother and her son could ever be.

Then, without a word, the boy turned and walked to the window cut out of the middle of the bare concrete-block wall. In their small casita, Jesús took a stance like a sentry at his post, looking straight up and out to the sky… and there he stood, eyes fixed… strange, carnival lights reflected on his face…

She couldn’t take her eyes off her hijo, whispering repeatedly, tears streaming,  “Gracias, mi Dios por esta milagro… gracias… muchas gracias…”

Remembering Jesús had given her something before the tears, she opened her hand. Old and tarnished, obviously something picked up on a dirt road in the Village, a small devotional medal of a Saint. She could make out, thru the burning water in her eyes… a medal of St. Jude Thaddaeus, the patron Saint of lost causes.

It was then that a dazzling light burst forth inside ‘nuestra hogar de bendicion’, a distinct female figure emerging in the blinding brightness…

crisbaj

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‘The Last Last Lecture’ is copyright ©2018-2021 by crisbaj. All rights reserved. No reproductions, reprinting or reposting without express permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contact:  http://www.crisbaj.com