Very powerful. Thanks for sharing it. Laughter is not the only good
medicine, tears work well also.


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> ----------
> From:         Sylvain Pascal[SMTP:[log in to unmask]]
> Sent:         Wednesday, August 19, 1998 1:57 PM
> To:   Multiple recipients of list PARKINSN
> Subject:      The Eyes of a Child
>
> I am new to the group. In fact I joined to understand the PD as my
> mother has been diagnosed of same one week ago. As a first
> contribution
> I wanted to post a poem I came through some time ago and dedicate it
> to
> you all
> S Pascal
>
> The Eyes of a Child
> -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
>
> The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
> Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
> Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
> For the world was intent on dragging me down.
>
> And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
> A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
> He stood right before me with his head tilted down
> And said with great excitement, "Look at what I found"
>
> In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
> With its petals all worn-not enough rain, or to little light.
> Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
> I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
>
> But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
> And placed the flower to his nose and
> declared with overacted surprise,
> "It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
> That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
>
> The weed before me was dying or dead.
> Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
> But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
> So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
>
> But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
> He held it midair without reason or plan.
> It was then that I noticed for the very first time
> That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
>
> I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
> As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
> You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
> Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
>
> I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
> A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
> How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
> Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
>
> Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
> The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
> And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
> I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that's
> mine.
>
> And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
> And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
> And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand
> About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
>
> Author Unknown
>