He wanted to go in that tunnel so bad. From the day he was born I have stood at his side filled with the need to help him. There wasn't much I could do to help him breath, so I red books on tape so he could hear my voice constantly. I sang to him. When he came home the first sound of unhappiness I jumped to his rescue. Whether or not he needed me to is another question, but the post traumatic stress of him almost dying stood in the way of me not being his constant crutch.
As I sat on the deck taking in the 75 degree breeze, I could see that he wanted to go in that tunnel. He studied it. He peered in a few times, then back out not sure if he could do it. IT took all I had not to run to his side, push and pull him, give him what he wanted, and fast. I had to sit on my hands. Half of his body made it in. I held my breath, then he came back out, frustrated. Biting my lip I tried to take in the blue sky and not notice that he wanted in that tunnel, he wanted to explore, he wanted in. I wanted to help.
Again, he managed to get in half way, and it seemed as though he must have been thinking about how he could get all of himself in without going out the other side. Turning himself in the tight space, maneuvering his big feet with those shoes, he struggled, I thought about helping get his shoes unstuck, but something made me just sit there and watch.
His hand reached out to touch the grass, maybe he was confirming that he had made it in.