A Short Night
Late last night, after two certain young boys I know were supposed to be sleeping, I sang the Good Night song to my parrots and walked through the house, turning off lights. I thought I saw a flicker of white bounce off the kitchen window, but ignored it. I piled dirty cups and the boys' Friday night movie popcorn bowl into the sink and called the dog inside for the night.
Flash! - a zigzag of white light hit the gunmetal handle of the fridge, and I twirled to peer outside.
Countdown! - the cracking voice of my older son, 10, counted backward fast from three to one.
Tarzan Yell! - the unmistakable warble of my youngest son, 8, echoed across the backyard, hit the porch, and I barely saw something 8-sized leap from the short roof of the house to the hard grass.
Scream! - yup. 8 alright.
We spent the next six hours at the hospital, waiting, waiting, waiting, taking medical history, taking x-rays, taking Tylenol. Nothing broken, just a bad sprain, just one small child disappointed that he won't be wearing a paper-mache arm cast, only a navy blue arm sling.
"So," mumbled the ER doctor, his eyes red and blurry from a night of drunk driving emergencies and heart attacks and one pit-bull bite. He lifted one arm to listen to the beat of my boy's heart. The armpit of his baby blue surgeon's suit was dark and wet with perspiration. "How'd this happen, son?"
8 rose one eyebrow and blew a lung-full of air out of pursed lips.
"My brother told me if I held a parrot feather I could fly, just like Dumbo."
9:56:17 AM 
|
