A Beautiful Moment

 

Created by Anonymous.

 

 

The stars twinkled like jewels in the ebony sky the night of Micah's accident. I know because I stopped just beyond the oak copse between the house and the creek to look up. It was a moment of breathing in the crisp air in the little quiet sandwiched between mom yelling, and Micah's incessant babbling. Just a moment of peaceful appreciation for the beauty of dusk turning to night and lightning bugs dancing a Morse code of their own making. I saw the stars, felt the breeze, and took that moment to notice that the evening's green had turned to deep blue shadows. I only heard the splashing later, when I was right upon him. Micah had fallen into the swimming hole, his frantic little arms fatigued by the time I jumped in, shoes and all, to save him. All of the fight went out of him the moment I grabbed him in the water and dragged him to shore. He was coughing, sputtering, and wheezing. And then there was shivering and labored breathing from us both. The breeze was no longer a graceful touch, but a freezing gust. The deep blue shadows of night only delayed our progress home, each step carefully placed between root and rock. Forget the damn stars.

Mom was beside herself by the time we sloshed back home in our wet clothes. First yelling about the time, then yelling about the state of us, then yelling about Micah nearly drowning, then yelling about my negligence, then, scariest of all, falling to her knees and cradling us both in her arms while her body wracked with sobs. That's when anger and shame started to boil deep inside me. It was my fault.

There was a flowery painting grandma made in our bedroom. It was large enough to put my fist in the middle and still see some of the picture around. Long after we were dry, when Micah's breathing was even in his sleep, and all the lights in the house were out, I gently, quietly, carefully took the painting off the wall. I lined up my fist with the middle of where the painting was, drew back, then punched a hole straight into the wall. Acute pain and fear shot through me. It was louder than I had imagined, but through some miracle, or maybe just exhaustion, Micah only rolled over in his sleep. I stood there, trembling, waiting, and listening intently for mom. But the floor boards didn't creak with the weight of her step. I replaced the painting over the hole. The beauty of the painting hid pain and shame behind it, just like the moment of quiet beauty had hid desperate splashes.

 

Now I've come with Micah, both of us now adults, to visit our mom in our childhood home. A tub of spackle and a putty knife in hand, to patch the hole I made all those many years ago.