Michael had a strong hated towards the nursery. It embodied everything he couldn't stand; his mother's fragile and ever slipping grasp of reality, babies, dolls and pastel colors.
It was painful stepping into the room, remembering the baby, whom years ago had slept there.
He waited nine months for her, only to hold her seven times before she joined the countless siblings which had begun to form only to disappear from his mother's room as quickly as they'd appeared.
He hated that her crib now held silicone imposters and that clothes she'd worn were now covering cloth torsos. Most of all he hated the rocking chair in the corner where his Mom was always sat, one of her "babies" in hand, rocking slowly as if the inanimate object needed soothing.
That was how he found her on the Thursday in question, bouncing a bundle of silicone parts and humming softly to herself, her face lighting up at the sight of the legitimate child she often forgot she had.
"Michael!" she greeted in a loud whisper.
Leaning in the doorway, Michael crossed his arm across himself, holding the elbow of his bad arm.
"How was school?"
"It was fine."
"Do you have much homework?"
"Not really."
"That's great! You can help me redo the nursery, I think I want to move some stuff around tomorrow."
"Mom, about that, I wanted to ask you something?"
Still rocking back and forth, she nodded, waiting for him to go on.
"I have a fieldtrip tomorrow. Can I go?"
"On a Saturday?"
"Tomorrow is Friday."
"Is it?"
He nodded.
"Where are you going?"
"Museum." Michael lied easily, because art was the first thing which came to mind when thinking of Luke.
"Did you ask your Dad?"
He nodded, another lie.
"That's fine with me."
Elated, Michael turned to leave.
"Be careful." she called after him, "And focus, it's easy to overlook art."
Stopping, Michael nodded, "I know, I wish everyone could see it."
And he did, he wished everyone saw Luke the way he did. See him as the muse that filled the sketchbook hidden under his pillow away from his Dad's judgment and destructive hands. See his eyes twinkle and light up with passion, the skin around them crinkling like autumn leaves on the sidewalk when he smiled. See the way his nose scrunched when he laughed, the way he became the sun when the infectious sound left his mouth. He wanted everyone to appreciate the way the hem of his shirt lifted when he ran his slender fingertips through his dirty blonde hair, wanted everyone's favorite sound to be the boy's accent laced voice.
He did, and he didn't, because as much as he wanted everyone to experience Luke, he was grateful that he got him all to himself. He was like a great book and a good dessert, Michael wanted to share him, but doing so risked loosing him, and that wasn't an option.
Luke was the only consistent thing in Michael's life and more then anything he wanted him, needed him to stay.
