It’s a July afternoon in 1969.

A week earlier the U.S. had sent
Mr. Armstrong to the moon.
In a small town in Virginia Beach, Virginia,
a lanky man with a well-kempt mustache hides
clear blue eyes behind silver tinted aviators.
A young woman with strawberry blond
bouffant hair and an easy smile lounges
beside him on freshly trimmed grass.

Two young girls, one redhead and one brunette coo over a smiling baby with twinkling blue eyes and blushed curls, the color of her mama’s.

***

Little Jenny’s curly hair grew
redder and her eyes brighter.
She had an irrepressible laugh and two
dimples on each of her velvet-soft cheeks.

After celebrating her first birthday,
Jenny still struggled to stand.
She would pull herself to her feet but
tumble back down beneath her own weight
moments afterwards. Her mother would bite
her lip, coaxing, with a wrinkled brow
“Come on, dear, you can do this, Jenny”

After nearly sixteen months
all her lips could
form was a soft gurgle
Da  da  da   Ma  ma  ma

Degenerative Leigh’s Disease, diagnosed by a tall, lanky man with salt and pepper hair. She has five years at most. I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace.

***

Jenny still loved being outdoors.
She couldn’t move her legs or arms any longer but
her blue eyes still sparkled, and her laugh still
rebounded against the sun.  Julie loved to walk through
the park with Jenny, pushing her wheelchair along
as they discussed Brontë novels and the controversies
of Carter’s campaign. Jenny couldn’t
respond but she was always listening –

Not just to Julie, but everyone around her
Hands shielding lips as they murmured into nearby ears,
Pitifully discrete glances and mouths slightly a gape.
Ignorant children, Impudent teenagers

“Why isn’t that girl moving at all?”
“Why is that girl in a wheelchair?”
“What’s wrong with her?”

Julie had learned to keep her voice steady
and the conversation natural, letting the
comments deflect off the durable shield she
had built over the span of  several years –
a shield of optimism and indifference.

November 1977

The park is particularly beautiful
when draped in a vibrant blanket of
red, orange and yellow – when the air
is new and fresh but not yet bitter or lifeless.
Jenny’s hair always shines brightest
among autumn’s rich colors.

Julie pushes Jenny’s wheelchair swifter than
usual as they eagerly discuss the upcoming
Thanksgiving holiday. I’m thankful for
these walks, Jen, aren’t you?
It’s the only time we get just us two.

A group of boys, no older than
thirteen in grey, woolen jackets
knock a soccer ball around, nonchalantly.
As Julie and Jenny approach them, one
of the boys stops the ball with his foot, reaches
down, picks it up and secures it under
the crook of his arm. All eight pairs of
eyes turn towards Julie and Jenny.
        “What’s up with the one being pushed?”
        “She can’t even stop drooling.”
They’re not even trying to disguise their remarks. 
        “Yeah well what do you expect, she’s got some disease,”                 another one shouts.
Julie feels her fists clench until her knuckles are bursting at the skin. She sucks in her breath, counting slowly in her head as her pace quickens.
        “Shut up Jamie, she’s right there,” the bickering continues.
        “Whatever it’s not like she can hear us. She’s retarded.” 
Julie’s two feet rotate as her
carefully constructed wall of control
crumbles to the ground, allowing a
outpour of volcanic rage to follow
in its wake.
        “Retarded?” she asks the boys, who are still smirking.
She thinks of Jenny, her surprise,
her dejected heart at the sound of
three syllables of painful truth.
She wants to take her iron fists
and pummel each sardonic
smile to the ground. She takes a
long deep breath, thinks of mother
and her stolid assurance.
        “Actually, my sister Jenny heard every word you said,”
The boys grin sadistically,
expecting a fight. But Julie’s
heels turn defiantly and she walks back
to the handles of the wheelchair,
smiling at Jenny’s impassive
stare with an air of victory.

***

January 2000

Thirty-One tomorrow? I never would have thought. She looks stronger every day, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace. Her cheeks are flushed and those eyes are still bright – and that smile. She was always a happy child.

“Happy Birthday dear Jenny,
Happy Birthday to you!”
Her mother carries a coconut
cake complete with thirty candles,
each alight, blanketing the top
in a flickering veil of flames.

Jenny’s smile radiates, and
her musical laugh fills the
room with glee. Shelly and Julie
grasp each of her hands tightly
as her father eternalizes the
memory with a click of his camera.

Jennifer passed away the first Sunday of April, 2003. 33 years old, and surrounded by friends and family.