Hooked

"Accident prone," the mother said to me as she rolled her eyes.
"Come here, boy, let me see it," said the aunt to her young nephew, still a ways off. The boy stood back, no emotion on his face, just one hand covering his bottom lip. She urged again and he dropped his hand. "O Shit!" exclaimed the aunt.

Ten minutes earlier we had found two young boys standing on the side of a lake. The smaller one was frozen holding his fishing pole as the older one gingerly held the fishing line at his mouth. We jogged over to help. Rachel went looking for his mom way down the beach. I grabbed a slimy knife from their bucket and cut the line as close to the hook as possible, so afraid I would slip and tug it deeper into the soft flesh. It was a big hook and the end of the worm was still on there. I patted him on the back.

"You're going to be okay, buddy. A doctor can get that out for you, no problem. You're pretty tough, little man." As we walked I tried to lighten the mood a little. "Does it hurt?"

"It's numb," he said, flatly. Then silence. "Am I gonna get stitches?" he inquired, annoyed.

"One or two," I guessed. "But I'm no doctor. Hey - at least it will be a good story," I smiled. No smile back. I tried a joke and asked some questions but overall he was a pretty serious little kid.

We were walking fast until the boy caught sight of his mom, who was apparently in no rush. The boy slowed to a stop. No emotion on his face, just that ugly sunken hook and a foot of fishing line dangling from his lip. And no wonder he was numb. Not a soft word, not a tender touch, not an inquiring look was given by the mother nor the aunt. Just rolling their eyes at the boy while slowly hiking up from the beach. I felt awkward as I stood in the gap between them.

If I was a boy and I had a hook in my mouth, first thing I would do would be to run to my parents, crying. And if I was a parent whose son had a hook in his mouth, first thing I would do would be to run to my son, kneel in the sand, take a look at the lip and tell him it would all be okay.

My heart was in pain, longing for the boy to just cry and run to his mom. Longing for the mom to comfort her son, to show compassion.

"Great. Now we gotta go to the hospital," they scolded as the whole party walked off, leaving Rachel and I behind, bewildered.

"Wonder how that kid is going to treat his kids," thought Rachel.
"Wonder how her mom treated her," I added.

I couldn't get over the flat affect of the boy at the sight of his annoyed mother. Maybe the mom unknowingly cast her hook of pain right into her son and tugged: stuck. The pain may be numb, but it's easy to see hanging on his serious face.

I once heard someone say that hurt people hurt people. That's certainly true of me. I have hooks in my lip, gingerly holding the line, following close. I have my stitches too. We all do, don't we? So what if we can't help it? With all our flailing hooks, somebody's bound to be hurt.How do we respond to one another in our hurt? Does the person who cuts the line and calls for help have to be hook-free? And where the heck is the doctor?!