Tag Archives: heart

fer sure…

Posted on by
Reply

…it bleeds

“Oh yeah, a scrape on my knee , oh yeah, a scrape on my heart, oh yeah, its bleeding, my my….”

He breaks off his singing. The words suck, but his tune is pretty good. Somewhere between Cee-Lo Green and Celine Dion. Catchy.

“…dad is a heart like you, know, uh like the same what do you call it the stuff that we’re all made of …yeah, you know!?!”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

And he launches into the chorus.

“Ohhhhh.what’s the question, oh yeahhhh, what’s the question. Scrape on the knee, Scrape on the heart, oh yeah, my…..  is bleeding.”

He stops singing, “You see dad…what’s this, you know this stuff.”

He pinches his forearm.

Odd.

Its his knee he scraped pretty gruesomely while flying on his scooter. He lost control, trying to show off how good he was, competing with a girl on a bike. At 8 and a half there is already the drive to impress.

“Skin.”

“That’s it dad…you’re good. Oh yeah, scrape my knee, scrape my heart, I’m so sore and my skin is bleeeeeedddinnnggg.”

The tune is catchy, all right. But should I tell him that the heart and the knee are not the same stuff…skin.

“Oh yeaaaahhh, baby, (sings the 8yr old midget), I go on my knees … my heart skin bleeds…oh baaaaabbbyyyyy…my heart skin bleeds”.

Heart skin. His knee skin is raw, full of dirt and gravel, bleeding. It happened a minute ago. Yet he didn’t cry, scream or panic.

He started singing. About Heart Skin.

“Does your knee hurt, Noah?”

“Fer sure…hah! did you hear how I said that, dad? Fer sure….that’s funny…Fer sure, baby, fer sure, baaaabbbby, my heart skin bleeds fer sure, baaaaabbbbby.”

Better than a howling kid, clutching his bloodied knee on the sidewalk while the non-parents cycling by throw vaguely accusatory glances to the irresponsible parent you must be.

Ouufff!

“Fer sure, baaaabbbbyyyy, I bleed fer you…”.  As he scoots home on his scooter.

Fer sure, the heart skin bleeds. And, fer sure, it makes fer a good song.

Fer sure.

 

 

 

 

lose it…

Posted on by
Reply

….find it and lose it again…

Noah lost two lunch pails in two days, in addition to a cap, a pencil case and his school agenda.

“Noah, where did you lose them?” is the inevitable question.

“Dad, I’m sorry but I have no idea,” is the inevitable response.

Ah….school’s in!

But then, over the next few days we visit the lost and found…a big wooden box outside the principal’s office… sweaters, hats, socks, strings, elastics, books, a back scratcher, underwear, various precious and not precious jewels, a yarmulke and one shoe.

I’m strangely reassured. My kid loses stuff , but at the end of the day he still has both his shoes.

“It’s crazy, hunh, dad? I mean how do you lose your underwear?”

Sometimes when you’re in love. But not at school.

“Dad, my lunchpail.”

Yes! And his cap and his agenda. Bottom line, one pencil case and one lunch pail are still AWOL.

Perhaps, after an inexplicable adventure they will show up in the lost and found box, waiting for Noah.

“Dad, there should be lost and found boxes everywhere like on street corners so that no one ever ever loses anything.

No loss, no gain, my boy. If you’re lucky it’ll cost you only money.

Bent over for minutes, scouring the bottom of the box, the blood rushes to my head.

I wonder what the Lost and Found Box of my life would contain.

People….friends, lovers, parents, brothers and sisters and false-brothers.

Mostly lovers.

Women have been the content of my life. Delightfully, devastatingly.

But somehow I don’t feel as if I’ve ever really lost anybody, even the dead. My Lost and Found Box is beneath my ribs.

“Dad, my friends told Keegan today that I thought she was hot. I was like “no, no, don’t” but they went to see her anyways and and she, like,  laughed.”

“She was probably embarrassed, Noah, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t think you’re hot.”

He scrunches his face in doubt.

Ah, kid, the torment and the delight has begun.

Love lost and found and lost again…

Enjoy!

 

fire…

Posted on by
Reply

…in the belly

Last night my head was spinning.

So I went to bed. Before midnight.

Victory.

By blowing several holes in my brain through a variety of ilicit and licit abuses, I finally succeeded in exhausting myself sufficiently to be unable to stay up and see whether Dublin would catch Galway in the Irish Senior Hurling Championships.

And I went unconscious immediately as I hit the mattress.

Baby has finally fallen asleep. Ssssshhhh…don’t wake him.

As a child I would stay awake all night for fear of the dark, of the unprotected abandon that sleep required.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy.” The baby is awake. He’s crying.

I wake, disoriented. My head is spinning.

The pillow next to me is empty. The imprint of a mother’s head has gone.

It’s 4h30 a.m. I’m alone except for the incomprehensible complaint outside my door.

The sobs burst through my door and take shape. Noah is contorted, clutching his belly.

“It hurts, daddy, it hurts so much.”

I remember now.  I’m the parent.

I pull him into bed beside me. I kiss his head, rub his stomach, remembering the gestures of care as you would remember a lost forest path, one step leading to the next.

“It’ll be ok, Noah…it’ll pass.”

“But it hurts so much.”

“I know, I know.”

When the pain is intense you feel as if it’ll never go away. You’re consumed.

But I’ve been here before. The pain always passes. Nothing is forever.

“It’s a burn or a cramp, Noah?”.

“Both.” He crumples, clutching his belly button.

“I hate this so much. I want to just rip it out”

Yes. If I could just rip out my heart, whitewash my memory.

“It’ll pass Noah. Drink some water.”

I rub his belly counterclockwise. I remember its better counterclockwise. Not sure why.

“It’s like fire in my belly, dad. And now its here.” He slaps his chest and then his throat.

“It’s acid, Noah. Drink water, it’ll wash it down.”

Vitriol, my boy, vitriol. Like an Agatha Christie mystery where the victim and the culprit are the same person.

Me.

A funeral, a mourning and a father who no longer sleeps for fear of waking in a dream.

Sorry, Noah.

“If only I was a dragon, dad. I could at least go whoooosshhh and burn something. Owwww, it hurts.”

He dives deeper into my arms. He’s relaxing. The pain must be easing.

“Would be fun to write the story of a little dragon who had fire in the belly because he couldn’t breathe it out.”

Noah’s hand leaves his stomach and reaches for my fingers.

“Yeah and he could have like these really small little wings. Real cute like.”

“Yeah…. it’s passing?”

“A little.”

He wants to hang on to the moment.

Mourning is like that.

He eventually falls asleep. I don’t.

I wonder if Irish Hurling is still on the tv.