Of course there were children before. They come and go like new clinging vines, weeds winding tendrils through the latticeworks. This was no weed, but a diamond. And all we could do for him was to give him a setting, an outlook where he could perch, and watch, and become. The others would learn.
Children always learn.
They'd mimic, memorize, exhibit little unconscious influences in their speech, and here and there they'd solve a problem or create something new, like a snatch of melody or an ashtray. But his lessons were extreme, profound, and visceral. He was not sated until his lessons were completely internalized, no matter the price. One autumn evening the children came trooping in, babbling one to the next to each about their games, their frogs, their leaf collections, and their Fleer trading cards, but he was not among them. I asked of his whereabouts, and they told me he was probably still at the playground where they'd left him, a good two hours ago.