Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: CHILDHOOD (03/09/17)
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TITLE: Bobby Is Missing | Previous Challenge Entry
By Phillip Cimei
03/15/17 -
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DHS was unsympathetic to our situation; they took a hard stance on what they considered abuse. They had been out to our home four times this month. I still remember their words the last time, “It’s December, midnight, and Bobby was walking down Main Street in his underwear,” emphasized the DHS specialist. “next time we might have to take him.”
The family court judge had a reputation; she was more ruthless than Judge Judy, if you get the drift. If you don’t know who Judge Judy is, think of Christ standing before the Sanhedrin—she was the Sanhedrin. I looked in the basement, the attic, all rooms, no Bobby. I heard a noise outside; it sounded like a human voice. “Help, help!” came a shout. I ran to the back door. As I opened it, our large maple tree caught my attention. A ladder was propped up against it. There at the top—thirty feet up—was Bobby hugging the tree like a bear cub on its first climb.
I could hear sirens in the background, then saw flashes of lights. Someone had called 911. “Hang on, Bobby, hang on!” my heart raced as the fire truck extended its ladder. Before long, Bobby was down resting at the kitchen table. The police, familiar with Bobby, tried to console him. Then a knock at the door.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones. May I come in?” asked the specialist.
“Yeah…a…sure, I mean,” a lump was developing in my throat, “of course. Bobby is in the kitchen.”
“Hello, Bobby,” said the specialist.
Bobby just had a blank look. He turned his head and starred at the tree. “I need paper,” Bobby asked holding out his hand.
I brought Bobby some paper while everyone stood there wondering what he was going to do—I knew. Bobby loved to write poetry. Whenever he was sad, or happy, or scarred, he would write. We watched for the longest time. The police officer, the firemen, the specialist, all stood in amazement as Bobby crafted his poem. When he was finished, he handed it to me—not a word said, just a silly smirk. I read it out loud:
I like climbing
Way up in a tree
I like climbing
There’s so much to see
I like climbing
And pretending to be
Whatever is out there
Whatever I see
One day I see fire
And people afraid
I run to their rescue
I run to their aid
I like climbing
Way up in a tree
I like being a
captain at Sea
Tempests don’t scare me
Nor does a gale
I master the wheel
I harness the sail
I like climbing
Way up in a tree
Flying planes, driving tanks
Even crossing the sea
I’ll fight for my country
Brave battles for all
Guard freedom and safety
Then smile and stand tall
I like climbing
Way up in a tree
There’s so much out there
There’s so much to be
I hear sirens
There calling for me
How did I get up
In this big tree
Now I am scared
I can’t look down
Why am I here
My joy’s now a frown
Help me down, help me down
Can’t you see
I’m stuck way up
In this big tall tree
Help me down, help me down
Can’t you see
I’m stuck up here
‘Cause I’m seventy-three
Alzheimer’s—to some caregivers— is like a boa squeezing the mind until it kills the soul—not to God, not to me. They all looked at Bobby. He still had that silly smirk, and that penetrating stare at the tree.
I grabbed Bobby’s hand and started singing a song, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world; red and yellow, black and white…or seventy-three…they are precious in his sight; Jesus loves the little children of the world.”
Maybe God was giving Bobby a taste of what was to come. Jesus said, “For such—the heart of childhood—is the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Tears ran down the cheeks of those standing by. The adult protective specialist gave his verdict, “The best thing I can suggest to you, Mrs. Jones, is get more locks, AND, a chainsaw.”
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