jim.

Little girls in bright dresses run around the yard. Flower children. The boys are in one corner, plotting some game with a stick and a ball and a hoop - fighting over details.

He sits alone.

His toe makes a line in the dirt, then another, two dots. A smile looks up at him. He smiles back.

"Jim," he says to the smile, "I'll call you, Jim."

Jim just smiles.

The boy draws a house for Jim and a pony with a cart. He draws him a whole smiling family with a little bow on the youngest sister's head. There is a pile of candy canes and a piano with carefully drawn keys. Jim smiles at each new addition. The boy smiles back, wider and wider.

"Whatcha doin, loser?"

He doesn't answer. 

The older boy laughs at the pictures, "Baby! Come and show us if you're actually good at anything worthwhile!" With two kicks, Jim and all his things are wiped away in a pile of dirt and the destroyer runs back to his friends.

Alone again, the boy sits and stares at the place where Jim once smiled. Then, he gets up and hobbles away on his crutch, sniffing back the tears that threaten to betray his weakness.

Why, Jim? Why? Why couldn't you be stronger?