August | 2015 | Sierra Kummings

‘What’s wrong with your daughter,’ you ask

as I stare in puzzlement –

we’re playing and swinging at the park, same as you;

smiles as big on our faces as on all the others,

yet it’s me the question is directed to.

Not one greeting to my child did you attempt to make,

though your smile and whispered hello to me were nice.

I thought, perhaps maybe, we’d made another friend,

instead of just one more curious passerby.

With warmth, I scooted over and welcomed you

to join our exclusive shade from an oppressive sun,

where you, yes you, not a medical personnel,

asked for information, and really, for what reason?

You see, we have laws in this country that protect you and I,

and believe it or not, even the most vulnerable among us –

Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, or HIPPA for short –

perhaps I should inquire about your offensive halitosis?

Now, I’ll admit that last comment was not aimed at you,

just my anger getting the best of me.

Because no matter how many well-intentions

you might have actually had,

and the effort on your part I so clearly see,

well-meaning individuals such as yourself,

ask the same question everywhere we go,

and it makes me want to scream, ‘You’re missing the point. Wake up!

There’s a child here worthy to know.’

Not just her diagnosis or things she cannot do –

in fact, that’s not her at all –

she’s light, and she’s laughter,

and the song of my soul.

And honestly? We just came here to play ball.

Sierra Kummings