Musings on Life from a Dead Girl

Pink Blanket

Two little people look up at the celestial ceiling from plastic beds. With matching hats, nameplates, and socks.
The one to the right has the eyes of their father, a man with no face and no last name to give. The one to the left has been long awaited.
A parent who sits alone, hungry and tired. Scared and unsure. Another mother holds her husband's hand. One of the women has no place to go. The other has a mansion-house overlooking the world. They both sob.
There is a difference in the children. Slight. Nothing in mind, body, nor in spirit. Both are well built. And will grow up fine. Both arrived on time, with minimal delays. From the same city, state, and planet. Only a casual eye will ever dare to see it.
One will gain glory. One will attain fame and renown.
The other will keep themselves together without aid, but will be called weak.
One child will go to a fine school. The other even finer. One has trained their entire lives. The other had luck, and can scarcely write their name.
One chucks a ball around and calls it work. The other fights enemies only they can see. And sometimes struggles to get out of bed.
They were taught different lessons.
How to dress with safety in mind.
Means vs. median.
To smile.
To tie a tie.
To keep their legs together.
How to split an atom.
To eat less.
To fight.
To stay quiet.
To stand out.
To know their place.
One is on your television screen living their dream. The other had their's crushed to bits. Was laughed at. While the other was praised.
One tosses a leather ball to a child in the stands. So they know they can achieve greatness too. The other takes their things and walks, head high, with the cardboard box that houses what was left of that hell. As they board the elevator they flip off the suit that won't look them in the eye.
Do you know the difference between the two children? That day in the hospital one had a pink blanket.