A Language Long Forgotten

Some kids are running circles around the clinic, buzzing with alien jabber and lighting up the room with a hope that comes from not knowing any better. At least, that's what most would say. But then, children speak a language long forgotten by most.

The wait doesn't feel as endless as it most often does, though the end is by no means in sight. Still, from behind their medical face masks people smile at one another, and so it doesn't feel so grey to be in wait. You can tell because their eyes squint up when you look at them, and you come to forget why it is you've been waiting here at all.

Maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the medicine we've all been missing.

The children are still circling the room, swinging from railings and making grand statements in a language they'll inevitably lose touch with. They run, with arms outstretched, as if to say "I'm flying," because their mouths cannot. They are unaware of the illness that pervades the air. At least, they don't seem to care.

They choose not to wear their masks, but not because they do not know what's good for them; they choose not to because keeping them on would inhibit their speech, cull their incoherent zest for life. So they take them off instead. Because what they have to say is more important. And because they have so much to say, even when we don't know enough to listen.

By now, the nurse has called your name and you're following her to your room. Your breath is heavy and moist against your own face. Careful not to spread disease, you resist the urge to pull the mask from your mouth. When you reach your room, you can still hear the children laughing.

The nurse instructs you to turn off your phone and take a seat, with a tone more suited to the military than any hospital. Still, you oblige with a pointed, "Yes, ma'am," and a smile. She returns a soft, "Please and thank you," and you get the impression she's been pleasantly caught off guard. Still, she returns a moment later to be certain you've obeyed.

Soon the children move to the room adjacent to yours. The door is closed, but you can tell from the periodic bangs and shrieks of laughter that they're still there. Occasionally, you hear the stern reminder of a fatherly figure, or less often, a laugh of his own. Even the nurse chimes in with a muffled, but undoubtedly cheerful, "You kids don't seem sick at all!" and you begin to wonder when it is a child loses their ability to instil such joy, or whether they have to lose it at all.