Thursday, December 27, 2007

An Empty Cavernous Place

A couple of days ago we unwrapped a pack of onesies and a pair of size 6 months pajamas. Last week I was doing some Christmas shopping when I saw a plush turtle that looked as though it belonged to my child; the one inside my wife's womb. I bought it and put it in a box with the rest of the stuff for the growing baby. It's all just sitting there waiting for the day we walk through the front door with the baby in my arms. We have a whole box of that stuff. Today we had our second ultrasound. Before we left to see the doctor I strapped my bike to the back of the car. From the doctor's office I was going to ride to Chris's house, then we were going to ride back to my house. Jenny would have dinner ready when we arrived. But first we were going to see how our baby was growing. We were going to see a heartbeat this time. We would see the little lima bean body. The technician turned the screen toward me. She started pointing the camara all around my wife's womb. She didn't say anything. She seemed to do this for a very long time. I began to get worried. I held Jenny's hand. She squeezed harder. I felt as though I had splashed into a deep lake. Sounds became muffled. "What's wrong?" I asked. "I don't see a fetus," she slowly responded. "What does that mean?" I knew damn well what it meant, but I asked anyway. She told us it meant that the womb had been growing but the baby hadn't. The cells just got together and then didn't multiply. She said it happens to nearly half of all women. She left the room. I held my wife in my arms. We had a good cry. I didn't ride bike today. Plans change. We called our parents. We had to tell them they'd never see their first grandchild on earth; in so many words. We heard them sniffle and dry tears over the phone. They're praying for us. We prayed too. We asked for some of that peace that surpasses understanding. Chris bought us dinner. God sent him over to give us some comfort. Tomorrow I'll put the box away. I'll hide it real well and hope it vanishes.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

A Small Victory

As I rode to work this morning, the wind was a whisper that warned of waxing intensity. By the time my half day of work had ended, it had made good on its threat and blew with an urgency that mirrored the mall's atmosphere in these final 3 days of compulsory consumption. During much of my ride home, this urgent wind was at my back. Mr. Belvedere was the name of my clipper ship, pavement was my wavy sea, and I captained the rudder with the bending of elbows. In the distance I spied a tree that held big sharp-angled leaves; like those of a maple. One broke free and lifted toward the sky. I decided I would meet it in the air. Perfect timing was essential, the sail-like leaf was unpredictable, and I was still far away. I increased my speed and monitored the course of my target. It blew right, dipped hard, lifted again, blew left, rose higher. I was getting close, but the leaf was falling straight down now. There would be no more lefts or rights. Quick, powerful strokes propelled me to the point of intersection. I was arriving too soon. I sat down, straightened up, glided smoothly. The leaf seemed to pause in front of me, and then it glanced off my chest and fell to the ground.

Friday, December 7, 2007


They walked in soaking wet. They wore dripping t-shirts or hooded sweatshirts that acted like sponges. They were shivering. I jacked the industrial sized roll of paper towels from the staff restroom. The kids don’t have paper towels. They have hand driers. They would make a mess with paper towels. Throw them on the floor. Throw them at each other. I tore off four foot strips. Held them out at arms length. The kids grabbed at them while their eyelashes dripped. They wanted them badly. They wanted more after they got them. It was like Christmas. It took ten minutes. Their hair was dry. My trash bins were full. Their clothes were still wet. That was last Friday. I thought they’d been caught off guard. Yesterday I gave them a warning. I said, “Wear your rain jackets tomorrow.” I said, “There’s going to be a big storm.” I said, “You don’t want to walk in looking like you did last week.” It was raining this morning before school started. Some walked in wearing t-shirts. Some were wearing hooded sweatshirts. I realized they didn’t have jackets. I realized I’ve lived a privileged life.