Emily Weaver

A Special Life

The Little Piece of Crumpled Silver Paper

John Weaver 2000

Her room is not the sort of room you’d quite expect to find, for a little girl whose love of life is clear, no toys or games or bats or balls, or fun things of that kind, no bicycle or skateboard will appear...

But the little piece of crumpled silver paper

Her room is cheerful and bright with pictures everywhere, a pump to feed her through the night and a big adapted chair. Though pretty dolls sit on the shelf and teddies on her bed, she cannot play with them herself so she holds them tight instead...

And the little piece of crumpled silver paper

It was Christmas day some years ago with excitement in the air, when we opened her presents and then found, that she couldn’t play with them and it didn’t seem quite fair, that she would always be so cruelly bound, to a life without the toys that all children adore, and then we heard a new sound that meant so much more...

A crackle from the little piece of crumpled silver paper

The expensive gifts didn’t matter to this special little girl, her joy came from quite another caper, as the parcels and the packaging slowly started to unfurl, all she wanted was the silver wrapping paper.

You see, she could grasp it tight to make a funny noise instead, and so it fast became a dear friend and she holds it close beside her even when she goes to bed, and the lesson to be learned is, in the end…

That happiness is not always found in gifts so big and costly, and often simple things can bring the joy you need, that contentment is a state of mind and the choice is yours mostly, to be content with what you’ve got and with every little deed...or, to always be in want and never satisfied.

And so for me the real belief will never taper, that the truth of life is clear and very closely tied...

To the little piece of crumpled silver paper.

What Right Has She Got To Be Happy?

John Weaver 2004

'What right has she got to be happy' said a friend to me one day, with people at war and wanting and suffering in every way?

What right has she got to be happy, with taxes as high as the sky and with the cost of living still rising, why is she so happy, why?

What right has she got to be happy, when the weather's so miserably bleak, when the sun shines for a day and then goes away and it's wet for the rest of the week?

What right has she got to be happy, when she can't walk or talk or see; why is she smiling so brightly, it's truly a mystery to me?

What right have you got to be moaning? Came my eventual reply. You should be glad to be fit and able, be grateful, don't decry.

What right have you got to be moaning? Just look at her and you'll see, that the only reason she's happy is...she's simply decided to be!

Wishes In The Dark

Sometimes when she's sleeping in my mind's eye I can see, the little girl I thought I had but who was not to be.

Sometimes when she's sleeping, hands folded by her cheek, I close my eyes and visualise a child who can speak.

Sometimes when she's sleeping she seems so whole and well, I can't believe she won't awaken with dreams of which to tell.

Sometimes when she's sleeping and my tears begin to flow, I'll steal a kiss there in the dark and wonder if she'll know.

Sometimes when she's sleeping, my eyes ache with tears unshed, and I pray that she is full of peace as she slumbers in her bed.

Sometimes when she's sleeping I can almost hear her say 'I love you mummy with all my heart, each and every day.'

But always when she's sleeping I am filled with pride, at the miracle that is my little girl and the perfection that's inside.

-Lisa Esmond (for Abby)


The Dream

John Weaver 2001

Whenever I dream of my little girl she runs and shouts and plays, like all the other children in all their boisterous ways.

I see her skip, I see her trip; I hear her laugh and cry, then when she’s had her fun, home she’ll run and into my arms she’ll fly.

With a great big hug and a teasing tug, she’ll cuddle me close and say ‘Daddy I love you heaps and heaps’ in her cheeky little way.

Whenever I dream of my little girl, she’s healthy, fit and well, with eyes alight and a smile so bright it’s really hard to tell, that my dream is a wish and a longing, a hope for something new; for her life to be one that is normal and able-bodied too.

But then I awake and I have to forsake my dream for what is true, that she cannot walk and she cannot talk like the other children do; that she cannot shout and skip about and cuddle me close and say, the things she desperately wants to, yet in her own special way…

Instead she talks to me with her eyes and reassures me with her smile, that all is well and I can tell that she’s happy all the while, knowing that one day in some magical way, we’ll play together and scheme, and sing and shout and skip about…in an everlasting dream.