Why were we made just so, to find so many things that happened every day pretty?
George Saunders, “Tenth of December”
I revisited some old journal entries and came across one titled “Moments that brought me joy today” from about 2 years ago (That title was really vulnerable for me to share). Included in it was a scene which has since stuck with me. This is my attempt at retelling it.
March 19, 2024.
Setting: Medical building courtyard. Lunch break in scrubs. Reading a book on a sunny day when, suddenly, a boy appears.
Seven? Eight, maybe? That age where one tends to be in constant, forward motion, eyes radiant. He’s walking side-by-side with Probably-Dad, in cargo shorts two-to-three sizes too big.
A woman emerges from the clinic doors across the courtyard. Probably-Mom. I base this conclusion on the way his face lights up as he sees her in the distance. Pure, unfiltered joy.
She’s mid-step now, digging around for something in her purse maybe, when—
“Mom!!”
His heart reaches her before his legs do as he frantically stumbles toward her in the warm, spring light.
Then he notices it.
Wrapped around her forearm is a Suspiciously-Bright-Blue Bandage. Even at a young age, one understands it to be a color far too bright, too cheerful, for what the environment suggests. As if exclaiming: Don’t worry! Nothing bad happened here!
(Cue: People in white coats and scrubs, everywhere.)
Bad things definitely happen here.
His mind starts to recalibrate; Pure Joy, interrupted mid-flight, desperately begins to look for someplace to land. His eyes are transfixed on the bandage now, as if staring at it long enough might cause it to explain itself.
“What happened?”
He reaches out and carefully rubs the bandage with both hands.
“Are you okay?”
On okay, his voice breaks in a way that tugs at my heartstrings a little bit.
She looks at him. Her expression softens, and I get the sense we all felt it—me, her, Probably-Dad. That brief, disarming pang one feels when encountering, say, a newborn puppy; a love that hasn’t yet learned how to hold back.
“Oh, it’s nothing sweetheart, I’m fine,” she says. “Just a blood draw, a small needle.”
Just. A classic word that, like a bright blue bandage, tends to hide something more sinister.
He doesn’t buy it. It’s evident in the way his hand lingers on her arm, as if he might somehow absorb any pain. He isn’t crying yet, but he’s close.
“I’m really okay,” she says again, softer now.
They embrace. He keeps one hand on the bandage.
They leave the courtyard, hand-in-hand.
A thought I did not ask to have, and would have preferred not to think:
This can never last.
His love for her probably will. But it won’t look like this for long. For whatever reason, there comes a time when the mind starts to hold the heart at bay. It seems that as we age, our expressions of love start to become more filtered and less raw. Especially towards our parents. I wonder why that is.
His love may never again express itself as a siren going off at the mere sight of a bright blue bandage.
Still, I hope he stays that way a while longer. Perhaps I’ll learn a thing or two from it.
marginalia 