I have a son,
his name is ”Harry”.
He’s a vivid imagination,
because he’s stationary.

”No father, don’t be mad.”
Son, you’ve made me sad.”

”Bleep… blop. Bleep… blop. Bleep… blop. Bleep… blop.”
The machine is keeping Harry alive.

”Living in the woods has got nothing to do with time, right pops?”

”No, it’s all about the freshness of the air and our friends, the animals. Isolation does us good too, you know. To make it in the world you’ve got to one-up the average Joe. We aim higher, living like this. Survival of the fittest.”

”Yeah!  Survival!” says the little rascal cheerfully.

Harry knows nothing of survival. He’s in his wheelchair, looking at me like a dumbfound dog. However, he’s got one  good thing going for him. He’s an absolutely outstanding imagination. Not so much rooted in reality but more abstract. Like he’s able to think of things completely out of the box or the normal spectrum of things. We took him  to a therapist for an evaluation. But got none.

Sitting on the porch mumbling something by himself he decides to leaves his wheelchair and head for the stairs. I quietly observe the scene from a safe distance, you never know what paralyzed kids might do when they’re out in the open. He manages to get out of the chair and gracefully rolls down the wooden staircase.  After 5 minutes of Harry wailing his arms trying to move away from the insects and other horrors living in the woods I step out to help.

”Here grab my arm. Let’s go inside and make pancakes for lunch.”

”Dad it’s Thursday, why am I not in school?”

”You don’t go to school, silly.” I reply, puzzled. We don’t have television or radio so where’d he learn about school? His mother only visit us briefly every other week or so and she’s never mention public school.

”Want to go inside and get the pancakes ready? I’ll let you pick the ingredients this thyme!”

Harry harklar sig besvärande och blir lite blå i ansiktet. Ibland glömmer han att andas när han tänker. “Då vill jag ha ägg, rostbröd, 1½ liter mjölk och två teskedar margarin!”  säger han och flinar så brett att de gula tänderna syns.

”Son, enough with the made up languages, you’ve lost your right to pick the ingredients and will have to sit outside when we’re eating. That way I won’t have to see those disgusting teeth of yours.

I serve him his fair share of pancakes and park him on the porch under the burning sun. I can hear him talking to himself. He’s so out of touch with reality it’s hard to make out what he’s saying. That, or he’s so in touch with reality we normal folks can’t wrap our heads around it.

“I’M FINISHED, FATHER!” Harry’s voice echoes throughout the pine tree forests.  Startled birds leave their nests and begin their journey down south. Autumn is over before we’ve even had dinner. I keep an eye on him through the blinds of the kitchen window. I’ll just finish writing my resume before I bring him back inside.  >I’ve never seen Titanic< seem like a good thing to put to make people really interested.

“Harry, I know it’s cold but we have to do the best out of the situation. Let’s play with some of the pine cones we found this autumn! We’ll sit by the open fire in the living room.” I scrap the pine cones off the doorstep, a bottle of glue from the toolbox and Harry in his wheelchair from the kitchen.

“Look I’m a pine cone!”

“Sure am, buddy. But it’s early; we can still sleep for a few more hours before I’m headed to town.”