I hear that sound, that haunting sound, that sound that reminds me of a wounded animal. It’s just one syllable, but it carries the anguish of a lifetime. It’s sometime in the middle of the night and I rise and move as quickly as my arthritic joints will allow to his room. Like always, he’s pushed up the window shade and he's peering out the window. He’s aware that I’m in the room, but his eyes continue to search outside. I stand beside him and tousle his hair. He finally turns and looks up at me and I give him the best smile I can muster. Hopefully, one that doesn’t show just how exhausted I am. He’s again interfered with my precious sleep, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Hey, what’s up, my man?”
My hand is still on his head when I feel a shudder run through him. He turns and points to a long dark shadow on the ground outside his window and stammers, “W-w-what is that?” I look out the window and see that the moon is bathing the landscape in a pale glow. Letting out a bit of air in relief, I smile. “Hey Buddy, that’s a moon shadow. Look. See how big and bright the moon is tonight? No clouds around? The moon is casting shadows, just like the sun does during the day. That shadow is from that tree right over there, “ I say, pointing out the tree as his eyes follow my hand. “If we were outside right now we’d even see our own shadows.”
He shudders again, as he begins to relax. We talk about the night sky, the harvest moon, and the milky way for a bit before I make him go to the bathroom, where he urinates. I guide him back into his bed and offer him some advice on how to relax, “Think nice thoughts, think of a favorite place,” I tell him, as I pray silently to the god of sleep, please, please, let this child get some rest, and while your at it, maybe me, too? Then I position myself as comfortably as possible at the foot of his bed with my back against the wall and I sit and wait there, not talking anymore, only breathing slowly, long regular breaths that I hope he will soon imitate. I wait.
Tonight it’s less than an hour before I hear his breath relax and I’m sure he’s asleep. I close his window shade and return to my bed. I won’t look at the clock. It’s better if I don’t know what time it is. This routine of mine actually works, occasionally anyway, and this is one of those times, as I immediately fall into a deep sleep.
Again I’m awakened as he calls out, that single syllable, always the same, only this time he doesn’t sound quite so wounded. He just wants some attention, my attention. My eyes open and I sit up and groan at the daylight invading my room. I amble down the short hall to his room. He’s standing by the window and I see that the shade is, again, pushed up. I smile. “Hey, Partner, it’s morning time.” He smiles back at first, then his head hangs sadly. “I’m wet.” “That’s okay, Pal. Come on, I’ll help you get some dry bottoms and then we’ll have breakfast. We can change the sheets later. How about some chocolate chip pancakes and a glass of milk? Oh, and we both better eat some fruit, too. Right?”
We walk to the local grocery store every few days. That’s where he noticed a sign in the window.
“What does that sign say?”
“It says, ‘No Littering.’ And that funny looking bug in the circle with the red line through it is a litterbug.”
“That’s what I thought,” he replies nodding.
Later that week, we were on our way home from a visit to the preschool he will attend in the fall. I pulled into the grocery store parking lot. We were walking to the store when he suddenly stops and freezes.
“Hey, Sport, what’s the matter?”
“It’s that bird. I saw it the other day. It’s still there.”
I look over to see that he’s pointing at a dead starling lying on the ground in the parking lot. “Yes, I see. Are you sure it’s the same bird? Um, was the bird alive when you saw it the other day?”
“No.”
I wait for more response, but he’s silent. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, not now.”
“Alright then, you let me know when you’re ready. Okay?” He nods.
I hand him the items from the cart to place on the checkout counter when I impulsively grab a package of Skittles from the candy shelf conveniently placed at his eye level. I wink at him as I give him the candy to add to our purchases. Outside the store, I realize we’re going to have to pass the dead bird again, so I stop and pull the candy out of the grocery bag. A good enough distraction, I hope. “Hey, let’s have some Skittles.” I tear open the package and spill some of the candy on the ground around us. He points to the “No Littering” sign and down at the spilt candy and bursts into laughter. I laugh, too, and hand him some Skittles. We walk to the car chuckling and eating candy.
That night we negotiate how many books I will read to him before I leave him alone to try to fall sleep by himself, when he says, “I guess that was a bad bird, Gramps.”
I was confused, but he continued.
“You know that dead bird I showed you in the parking lot today? Well, it must have been a bad bird.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if the bird was good, it would be in heaven by now. But it’s not. It’s still in that parking lot.”
And this is why a 65 year old agnostic ought’n to be teaching a kid about heaven and earth. I haven’t figured it out yet myself. I just want him to feel safe, to feel loved, to be filled with hope. My trade-off is that I have to make stuff up. Oh and he’s a sharp little guy, too. I sometimes wonder if he senses my doubts. Like the time he challenged me, “Well, if heaven is so good, what are we waiting for? Let’s go now.”
So, I remind him about “souls” and that eventually the bird’s body and the bird’s soul will rejoin in heaven. He nods and immediately selects three books he wants me to read. I know he’ll store the information I’ve just provided him for processing later. And when I should be sleeping later, I’ll ruminate on all the profound explanations I could have given instead of that inept one I just uttered.
I read the books as we both fight sleep. For me it’s a losing battle, as I find it necessary to shake my head and blink my eyes to stay awake. But not him, he’s the sleep-fighter champion. I kiss him on the forehead, tell him that I love him and that I think he’s awesome. I think I see a quick smile, but he mumbles, “You’re supposed to think that. You’re my Gramps.” As I leave the room I make sure his nightlight is on, and both of our bedroom doors are open, just as we’ve agreed.
I go to my room and lie down, but damned if I’m not tired anymore. While a few minutes ago, I could barely read a couple of sentences without nodding off, my mind now busies itself worrying about any number of things, that I can do little about at this hour. Like, who in the world will take care of him if anything happens to me? Well, I tell myself, you’re all he’s got so you’re just going to have to stay strong. Heed some of that advice you hand out to him. Think good thoughts, eat your vegetables, let’s walk to the library today because it’s good exercise, relax and breathe deeply and slowly, let’s watch a cartoon because laughing is good.....
I must have finally fallen asleep because it’s dark when I hear his call, his anguished monosyllabic cry, “Mom!”
She won’t answer him. He must know that by now. I hurry as best as I can to his room and there he is, shade pushed up, staring out the window. I think I knew almost from the first day I took custody of him what it was he was looking for out that window. I knew it wasn’t his mother. He knows she can’t come back. What he’s searching for is that first glimmer of daylight, his only deliverance from the pain and anguish of night’s darkness.
