Tiny Tim’s Consultation

CrutchBone saws.  Metal rods.  Implants.  Wheelchairs, canes, physical therapy, drugs.  Tiny Tim heard all the scary words and simply nodded solemnly.  He wanted to tell the doctor that there was nothing that could convince him not to get the surgery. TT didn’t care if through some strange procedure he needed to have his tongue cut out in order to be taller – he would do it without question (figuratively, then literally). It would be a relief not to talk.   Despite being known for his chipper attitude and indomitable spirit, he was sick of being so small in stature.  It was a lot of pressure, being an international symbol for cheer and goodwill.  Sometimes he was cranky in the morning and didn’t want to beam at strangers on the street.  Sometimes he wanted to spit on their feet and trip them when they leaned over to wipe their shoes.  With his newly elongated  legs, he hoped he could break out of his “tiny, gentle, happy” persona, and embark upon a new identity as a repressed, angry adult.  Who was tall enough to put the damn angel on top of the Christmas tree himself.

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