He said I don’t know what love is.

When Benjamin walked into the waiting room, his face didn’t light up. He wasn’t excited to see me, he wasn’t happy I was there. His eyes were dulled, his expression glum, or as glum as it can be when you’re a year old and nothing immediate has overloaded your senses. The Usual Case of Curious Benjamin would have another episode another day, or so I thought. When his mother set him down to explore on his own, I detected a hint of a secret smile, one that disappeared as quickly as it arrived. He got used to his surroundings: As a child in an adult-created child’s world, he’s used to color. He sees a wild array of colors in every room they put him (and we keep ourselves in dull maroons and beiges and call bright blues and pinks adolescent), but not quite like this. Not so many illustrations, not as detailed, not with as much character. When his parents settle down to talk he marches right up to me, grabs my finger, and walks me around outside the room, back in, outside again and down the hall to the bathrooms and once in uncharted territory he quickly walks me back into the waiting room where mom and dad are. Benjamin decides that trying to turn off the light is a more fun game, even though his mother blocks the way.

I have to admire something about him. He isn’t afraid to go out and explore, that much is obvious. He doesn’t know about danger yet, sure, but I do like his insistence to leave the room, to leave sight of his parents (with someone else, however) and see what’s on the other side of the wall. Unlike Benjamin, though, I keep going. He reaches a point and it feels like he’s been walking miles (I imagine, on those little legs) and he has to turn around and make sure his People are still there waiting for him. I continue. I walk into the room on the other side of the wall, let the man close the door, lay down on the operation table as instructed and hope he doesn’t touch the metal rim with his scalpel.

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