I dreamed I was the oldest son of a very odd family. When I was nine, my parents brought home a strange, small, orange little brother. His name was Ernie, but they called him Coot. A few years later, they brought home a yellow, pointy-headed little boy, but they didn't really name him. They just called him Little Coot.
Years went by, and Big Coot was goofy as hell, but otherwise normal. Little Coot, on the other hand, was basically comatose. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong with him, but he rarely opened his eyes, never talked, and really didn't acknowledge us.
I was a grown man now, and I was just sick of the fact that my littlest brother didn't even have his own name. I always tried to talk with him some on my visits, even though he didn't respond. So I went and sat with him a while one day and started talking about names. I told him I was tired of calling him Coot, and thought we should try something different. He began opening his eyes and rolling them around, like he wanted to look at me, but couldn't figure out how.
This got me excited, so I tried a few names, but he got listless again. Then, I suggested Bert. His eyes snapped open and he stared right at me. He began opening and closing his mouth like he wanted to talk. So I told him his name would be Bert, and I'd tell the others.
Our old grandmother came in when I called all the family, and she was so happy, because Bert had been our grandfather's name. She seemed to drift into a contented sleep, but I thought she might be passing. Bert's mouth made a strange little O as he looked at her, then he turned his eyes to Big Coot and called him by his real name, Ernie.
That was his first word, and no one called either of them Coot again. Now they were Bert and Ernie.
No comments:
Post a Comment