The kid and the telephone.

There's a kid in my computer class. He comes every single day, strapped in with multiple belts to a wheelchair he doesn't even like and I don't even know his name. He goes to google, and as we work on our computer animations, he looks at pictures of telephones. He can't walk, he can't communicate- he has a speech impediment, and he's a life student. There's something else wrong that I don't know, but I watch him. He sits there, hour and a half, strapped, and surfs the ocean of google-image telephones. And he laughs. He stares at them and laughs, and throws his head back and starts to violently shake but he goes no where because there's buckles suffocating his lap and he still smiles. Eyes closed. He laughs at the vintage phones, the ones with the little spin-dialers, and he laughs at the newer cherry-red ones and I wonder what he's thinking. Phone conversations he's never had? Phone conversations he has had? Ones he's wanted to have? I imagine us having one. I imagine us talking about life and movies he wants to see. About what his life has been like.
Sometimes, I feel like him. Strapped into a life that at times I don't even like. I look at the things I wish I knew how to use, wish I could do, and I freak myself out. My heart starts to shake, and I'm afraid of where I am in life- (what if I'm doing life wrong?), if I can't hear God over the static of myself? And then I remember what laughter feels like. Warm. Something I'm sure, God does too.