Published in Epiphany online
Coda
You were the self-proclaimed Master of Stairs, crawling up and down with careless ease. Then you fell. I will never forget that look in your eyes; Daddy, why aren’t you stopping this? I was too far away, too immobile, parked with crutches at the kitchen table. You rolled head over heels, and I wasn’t there. I watched you watch me through the banister as you rolled. I hobbled over, scooped you up in my arms. God, you cried! More from fear than pain; nothing had hit the floor with any real authority. I held you, wrapped my warm arms around you, inhaled the scent of baby hair as I held you close and rocked you.
The first flowers arrive, bright and cheerful points of light, invasions of a warm spring contrasting with the cold of late winter. Throw them away. But your mother will want them.
That summer day. Your tears. You lost and didn’t like it. Little league soccer teaches many lessons, and this was your first. That final goal, between your legs, your fault. I knelt, held you in my warm arms. Was it enough? I told you that maybe next time, if you tried harder, you wouldn’t lose.
I lied.
Sympathy cards pile up, unopened, stacked with only a hint of order on the antique cook stove. It hasn’t had a fire in its belly since you left; now contains only stacks of useless catalogs, dreary papers for filing.
That first day of school. Behind us the yellow behemoths belched small children in a swirling, chattering current that seemed to overwhelm you. I could see it in your wide, brown eyes. Perhaps we should have done pre-school, prepared you better for this shock immersion. Given you the building blocks of social skills.
I walked you to your door and knelt down. Wrapped my arms in a quick hug. “I’ll miss you today.” I said, “But I’ll try to be brave. I won’t cry.” You looked up at me. You were brave too. But the corners of your eyes betrayed you.
That first real report card. Sixth grade, I believe, when they stop giving “satisfactory” and begin with the letter grades. You held it out, the mixture of fear and pride in your eyes reflecting your grades. A few A’s, mostly B’s, one glaring D. What did I say? Why the D? Why not more A’s?
Pink sun rises, peeking over Kansas. I turn my back on it. The sky is huge, our presence simply a peripheral coincident across the deep, infinite white that has yet to light to blue. It’s cold. We walk across the brown grass, the frost marks our footsteps. Records our progress for a posterity destined to be short-lived, burnt in the mid-morning sun. Your mother says nothing, stares at the ground. This will be hard for her.
I remember shadows that fell from the trees, hiding the path in patches of mystery, and the moon was absent, a void of dark in her place. You stood, silent, dirty Spiderman t-shirt and cut offs, stared into the unknown. The warm summer wind brought the sound of tree frogs up from the pond. “What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing full well.
“Nothing,” you said, unwilling to show fear.
“C’mon. You’re too old to be afraid of the dark.” I shamed you into moving forward and away, down that dark path.
When you left for California, I wanted to wrap my arms around you. You were so big, a man, yet a boy. The yellow U-haul coughed clouds of brown smoke behind you.
Randy sat in the driver seat, waiting. Your hair was in your eyes, the fashion of the times. You stood there, hands in the front pockets of your jeans. Your mother hugged you, tears in her eyes. “Mom, I’ll be back at Christmas. That’s just a few months away.” You said.
Then you stood before me. I wanted to, but didn’t know if I should hug the now man; my little boy. So I shook your hand. Was that right? Should I have hugged you, wrapped my arms around you and squeezed as I wanted to? Did you want one?
I watched your taillights disappear.
The eulogy is sweet and succinct. I barely hear the pastor’s words, but know what he says. I wrote it last night. I can’t bring myself to speak, to be the one who sums the short life. A slight breeze rolls down from the mountains, cool on my face.
When we visited, I should have noticed more. The beer cans overflowing were not the normal “Carefree young man”. You’d gained weight. California sucks, you said. The people are too shallow; it’s hard to make friends. I should have said; come home. I gave some silly advice about working hard, it all being worth it, not there to make friends. Grad school isn’t supposed to be easy. How’s the grades? I was so proud.
Randy found you.
I found myself consoling him, talking him through it from a thousand miles away, when I was the one who needed consoling.
Why wasn’t I there? Why couldn’t I have pulled the barrel from your mouth, wrapped my arms around you, told you it was going to be alright. Before you pulled the trigger. Why?
I want to pull off these useless arms, throw them down the hole that holds what is left of you. But I can’t. Instead, I wrap them around your mother. She’s going to need them.
You were the self-proclaimed Master of Stairs, crawling up and down with careless ease. Then you fell. I will never forget that look in your eyes; Daddy, why aren’t you stopping this? I was too far away, too immobile, parked with crutches at the kitchen table. You rolled head over heels, and I wasn’t there. I watched you watch me through the banister as you rolled. I hobbled over, scooped you up in my arms. God, you cried! More from fear than pain; nothing had hit the floor with any real authority. I held you, wrapped my warm arms around you, inhaled the scent of baby hair as I held you close and rocked you.
The first flowers arrive, bright and cheerful points of light, invasions of a warm spring contrasting with the cold of late winter. Throw them away. But your mother will want them.
That summer day. Your tears. You lost and didn’t like it. Little league soccer teaches many lessons, and this was your first. That final goal, between your legs, your fault. I knelt, held you in my warm arms. Was it enough? I told you that maybe next time, if you tried harder, you wouldn’t lose.
I lied.
Sympathy cards pile up, unopened, stacked with only a hint of order on the antique cook stove. It hasn’t had a fire in its belly since you left; now contains only stacks of useless catalogs, dreary papers for filing.
That first day of school. Behind us the yellow behemoths belched small children in a swirling, chattering current that seemed to overwhelm you. I could see it in your wide, brown eyes. Perhaps we should have done pre-school, prepared you better for this shock immersion. Given you the building blocks of social skills.
I walked you to your door and knelt down. Wrapped my arms in a quick hug. “I’ll miss you today.” I said, “But I’ll try to be brave. I won’t cry.” You looked up at me. You were brave too. But the corners of your eyes betrayed you.
That first real report card. Sixth grade, I believe, when they stop giving “satisfactory” and begin with the letter grades. You held it out, the mixture of fear and pride in your eyes reflecting your grades. A few A’s, mostly B’s, one glaring D. What did I say? Why the D? Why not more A’s?
Pink sun rises, peeking over Kansas. I turn my back on it. The sky is huge, our presence simply a peripheral coincident across the deep, infinite white that has yet to light to blue. It’s cold. We walk across the brown grass, the frost marks our footsteps. Records our progress for a posterity destined to be short-lived, burnt in the mid-morning sun. Your mother says nothing, stares at the ground. This will be hard for her.
I remember shadows that fell from the trees, hiding the path in patches of mystery, and the moon was absent, a void of dark in her place. You stood, silent, dirty Spiderman t-shirt and cut offs, stared into the unknown. The warm summer wind brought the sound of tree frogs up from the pond. “What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing full well.
“Nothing,” you said, unwilling to show fear.
“C’mon. You’re too old to be afraid of the dark.” I shamed you into moving forward and away, down that dark path.
When you left for California, I wanted to wrap my arms around you. You were so big, a man, yet a boy. The yellow U-haul coughed clouds of brown smoke behind you.
Randy sat in the driver seat, waiting. Your hair was in your eyes, the fashion of the times. You stood there, hands in the front pockets of your jeans. Your mother hugged you, tears in her eyes. “Mom, I’ll be back at Christmas. That’s just a few months away.” You said.
Then you stood before me. I wanted to, but didn’t know if I should hug the now man; my little boy. So I shook your hand. Was that right? Should I have hugged you, wrapped my arms around you and squeezed as I wanted to? Did you want one?
I watched your taillights disappear.
The eulogy is sweet and succinct. I barely hear the pastor’s words, but know what he says. I wrote it last night. I can’t bring myself to speak, to be the one who sums the short life. A slight breeze rolls down from the mountains, cool on my face.
When we visited, I should have noticed more. The beer cans overflowing were not the normal “Carefree young man”. You’d gained weight. California sucks, you said. The people are too shallow; it’s hard to make friends. I should have said; come home. I gave some silly advice about working hard, it all being worth it, not there to make friends. Grad school isn’t supposed to be easy. How’s the grades? I was so proud.
Randy found you.
I found myself consoling him, talking him through it from a thousand miles away, when I was the one who needed consoling.
Why wasn’t I there? Why couldn’t I have pulled the barrel from your mouth, wrapped my arms around you, told you it was going to be alright. Before you pulled the trigger. Why?
I want to pull off these useless arms, throw them down the hole that holds what is left of you. But I can’t. Instead, I wrap them around your mother. She’s going to need them.
