The Observant Child

Oct 13 2014

The observant child

clutches a plush brown bear

to her slender chest.

Her eyes are too large for her head

and seem to absorb all the light in the room,

like pouring liquid

into a reflecting pool

that never overflows.

She is the little girl

we feared was slow.

Who spoke late, and sparingly;

but turned out to have chosen muteness,

preferring to wait

until something worthwhile to say

came to mind.

She is still inscrutable.

And reticence can be useful,

because the taciturn

are easy to like —

we mistake their silence

for complicity,

they leave us space

to prattle on.

And because we attribute wisdom

to those who are frugal with words.

But this is the business of childhood,

to observe, and learn

make sense of the world.

Better to attend, than talk.

In her absorbent gaze

we call upon our better selves,

not sure if it’s wonder, or judgement

we see in those eyes.

And in her scrutiny

find ourselves wanting our own plush toy.

The one that was once inseparable;

with the same worn fur,

thin stuffing

spilling out.

To press against our nakedness,

keep us warm, and safe.

I’ve heard of high-functioning autistic children who were like this. Everyone thought language was a lost cause; but it turns out they had rich inner lives they kept to themselves, until they felt the time was right. I find something very appealing in this reticence, this assured sense of self. Most of the rest of us are eager to pontificate and pronounce; want to claim attention, make sure the world doesn’t ignore us or forget we’re here. I think the ending illuminates this contrast:  the needy adult, regressing and insecure, while this serene self-assured child unselfconsciously soaks everything in.

The immediate inspiration for this poem was one by Louise Gluck. I was skimming through a New Yorker article about her latest book Faithful and Virtuous Night. I’m not a big fan; but  this excerpt caught my eye:

My aunt folded the printed wrapping paper;

the ribbons were rolled into neat balls.

My brother handed me a bar of chocolate

wrapped in silver paper.

Then, suddenly, I was alone.

Perhaps the occupation of a very young child

is to observe and listen:

In that sense, everyone was occupied—

I listened to the various sounds of the birds we fed,

the tribes of insects hatching, the small ones

creeping along the windowsill, and overheard

my aunt’s sewing machine drilling

holes in a pile of dresses—

I felt compelled to do something with that arresting line:  “Perhaps the occupation of a very young child/ is to observe and listen …”. I immediately had a picture of this precocious little girl; her stillness, her ineffable gaze. This poem is the result.