The difficult kind.


My woman teaches the difficult young children. She does what’s called special needs and I think she was born to do it. She takes all the ones who’re a bit behind the pack and perhaps will always be, the ones who’re a bit lost, the silly hearts who’re still determined to stay a little bit longer in a child’s simple butterfly world or just out there somewhere else, in their own complete self-enclosed bubble, and she’s good at it.

They’re the distracted ones either living unwittingly on an unusually extended oxygen line of protective parental love or despite but because of parental stupidity, just about hanging on to the frayed tatters of their sometimes ruined childhoods. It can be a difficult row to hoe at times. I couldn’t do it.

She has that intuitive ability to get in touch with them and slowly inveigle them back into some sort of coping…

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