Only a call away
Tomorrow is Scott’s fifteenth birthday. I barely remember my self, before his birth. I remember my apprehension. My, “What if I can’t protect him?” My doubt and insecurity.
Sunday I brought home an injured bird. Monday I took it to the vet. I didn’t know a broken wing is the kiss of death. I’m so naïve, I thought that it might heal, like a bone. A sweet young thing, I was hoping that they could save it.
Last night while Scott and I were in the living room, I heard a thump against the door and when I opened it, a cat went skulking across the grass. The same black cat I chase from all the bird feeders.
Yesterday on the playground, I asked Igor (poor boy. Given a monster’s name, he acts it out) why he can’t listen. Sobbing, he said, “Because I am a jerk. An idiot.” A boy with a broken wing, just like my mourning dove. The cat can pounce so quickly.
There’s a door to my heart which is sealed off completely. Behind it lies my contempt for predators. There, I feel no pity, no compassion. Only an overwhelming rage at those who prey on innocence. I’m still not ready to forgive.
This was my prayer at Scotty’s birth: May his wings be strong and healthy. May his instincts keep him safe. May love guide and protect him. And in times of danger or uncertainty, may help be only a call away.
LBM 10/3/06

