Namine and I have started reading a new book for school, entitled The Door in the Wall. In it, a ten year old boy has suddenly and inexplicably lost complete use of his legs. Whatever plans his parents had had for him, they were now gone. Whatever expectations he’d had for himself, they were now gone.
As the first chapter ended, a monk from a monastery had come to take the boy away, in order to provide care he could not receive while he remained at home. As the monk led his horse, mounted by the boy, he told of how every wall — the chateau wall, the wall in the garden, the wall surrounding the monastery — has a door. In the book, the boy doesn’t know what to make of the monk’s words.
After I finished reading the chapter to Namine, I asked her why the monk told the boy about the doors in the walls. She told me:
“At the end of every wall is a door. Sometimes you can’t see it, but it’s there.”
Namine is often a literal child, but I didn’t have to explain the meaning behind the monk’s words. Namine drew the similarities between herself and the boy, explaining that she can’t walk without her walker, and how she uses her wheelchair most of the time. “But that’s okay,” she added. “It helps me get around, and maybe the boy can use the horse now.”
Leave a Reply