Jim went to Caroline and asked her if she'd like to taste some
stars. He had done it a lot these days, done it almost every day for the past 3 months, but Caroline hadn't done it yet. So he said, Caroline, it's
beautiful. And she said, yes, let's give it a try. And they did it and it was more glorious than either could imagine, even though Jim had done it so much. They laughed and laughed and laughed.
Sometimes Jim and Caroline had to hide things like tasting the stars, though. There were other things they had to hide, too: the
creek that
burbled and murbled and wurbled things in a language that was as silly as they were. They'd go down to the creek and say, hey, let's listen awhile. And it wasn't long before they'd be jumping and whooping and rolling around in the mud from the creek-language. They had to bury all this away, for only each other. If any of
the Others happened upon the marvelous, silly creek, they'd just call Jim and Caroline back home, and maybe scold them for getting so muddy.
The Others never, ever giggled at the creek. Never even smiled, either. Jim and Caroline didn't understand it: were they
deaf? Soon, though, they gave up on the puzzle and just decided to hide it all away.
The Others hid stuff from Jim and Caroline too, sometimes. Caroline told Jim the story of how one time she was listening to her mother and her mother's friend talking in serious tones about 'the
War'. Caroline didn't know what the War was. Jim didn't, either, when she told him the story. But she could tell it was something the Others hid from Caroline; the serious tone was always always always a sure signal. She knew she was supposed to feel what the Others were feeling whenever the War or
Taxes or
Mortgage were talked about in serious tones. She didn't know what it was. So she just laughed and smiled until her mother and her mother's friend started talking to her of the beautiful day.
Jim laughed so hard when she told him that. Whenever the Others say 'a beautiful day', he said, they only sort-of see it. It's like when someone sees your shadow dance when you dance. They see your shadow dance but they don't see you dance, right? It's all black and dark and there's an outline of the real thing but it's not, oh so not the real thing. And Caroline understood and laughed and laughed and Jim laughed with her.
Sometimes, Caroline said to Jim, she wanted the Others to know the world. And Jim said, don't, because they chose that kind of half-life, half-real and half-fake. They could see things as we see it but they don't want to. Most of them saw it our way, once, a big big big time ago. Here Jim stretched his hands out really really far and Caroline laughed because it was funny seeing Jim do that. And then Jim said, but they don't see it our way anymore.
And Caroline said, I feel sad for them sometimes.
And Jim said, I do too.
But neither of them could stay sad for very long and soon enough they were giggling and laughing and smiling.
I don't know who Jim and Caroline are. Maybe they're a popular stereotype of the mentally handicapped. Maybe they're children. I'm pretty sure they're the latter but my Dad thinks they're the former when he read this. Maybe they're just names in a story. Maybe they're something else entirely, something magical and grand beyond my description. I do know that we are the Others, though. And it's the doses of Jim and Caroline in our lives that keep us sane.