All Things Are Possible

She was so beautiful.

Steve thought she was 9 or 10, I guessed mid-teens.

Funny how an extra chromosome can create such an ageless wonder, an ambiguity of time-passed, the illusion of longevity. 

Funny how that same extra chromosome can create so much aesthetic perfection, the exotic almond eyes of fairy tale royalty, a pureness of heart and soul, a generosity and empathy found in few others, yet can be so painfully flawed in its ravages on so many of the functional human systems that sustain health and life.

I had already scanned the room, as I always do when faced with a busy, new environment, looking for that 1 in 691.  But this time my cursory glance brought back nothing. 

"That girl at the table over there has Down syndrome," Steve said, matter of factly. 

How did I miss her?  She was barely 20 feet away, sitting with her family.  The restaurant was loud and dark, so my oversight should hardly have been surprising.

Pushing her long blond hair out of her face in the easy, un-selfconsious way of someone comfortable in their own skin, she laughed at something her father said, tilting her head back, her mouth forming the words, "Oh, Dad!"  She perused the menu, practiced using a pair of chopsticks joined at the center with a band designed to aid a beginner, engaged in small talk. 

I couldn't help staring, trying carefully to avoid any sideways looks from her parents.  It's hard to stalk when my own child isn't with me.

I wanted to talk to them, to tell the girl how I admired her.  I remembered my prenatal fantasy of having a daughter I could go places with, do things with, of whose company I never tired.  I remembered how I thought all of that was gone forever after receiving Samantha's diagnosis, and how I have come to realize that the "fantasy" girl still exists.  Samantha is proof.  More proof was sitting at that table right over there.

All things are possible.