forever young

She can’t tell if he is looking at Earth or his feet, but she saw what she saw: an angel sitting on the edge of a cloud, contemplating, remembering something. She thought this because his face had reactions. He saw something she could not, and vice versa. She saw how good life could be. A stroke of pink paint drips across the orange sky. A hawk watches doves fly into the sun. A woman gives birth to a baby boy. The child receives a piece of paper that says, "Here is 80 years; do what you can with them."

The mother’s name is Kate, and her son is Timothy. They sit in a park. The boy is in her lap. She wears gloves and a scarf that's more decorative than essential, but she thinks it looks cute, and thus, essential. She reads to him at night. Their favorite is The Little Engine That Could, and when he sleeps, she dreams.

She rides her bike, and the wind fights with itself to go through her blonde hair. Her eyes used to only exist in space, and she is the girl at the heart of many stories, songs, and inventions. Those who cannot dance find they can when she pulls them onto the floor. She is a tall glass of milk for brittle bones.

Timothy runs home from school. No one knows who he looks like because he runs so fast, leaping over trees, cars, and chalk, but he always ends up in her arms, and for a moment, mother and son are as they should be.

She teaches him how to swim, and from the bottom of the river, he looks like a young horse. He practices shooting a basketball. He imagines the day his hand will be bigger than the ball. His backpack has homework in it, and a letter wedged between the pages of his math book. It's from Erika Scheubert. She makes fun of him, and the boy does all he can to avoid her. She is a pale, freckled creature, he believes. He saw her put the note in his book, and when he put it in his backpack, he pretended he did not know it, and she shoved him out of his chair. He brews frustration and tries to focus on his shot. One day, he’s going to play in the NBA. He’s going to make the basketball team this year.

At the tryouts, Coach Rodrigo has the boys scrimmage. They are the Panthers, and their colors are blue and yellow. Timothy plays the best game of his life, but whenever he looks at Coach Rodrigo, his eyes seem to be telling him he’s a little short. Timothy hits the paint and does a no-look pass to Dennis behind him. He had no idea Dennis was there; it was just a feeling, and it was incredible. The Coach shakes his head and looks at his clipboard.

The following morning, the boys wait in frigid temperatures outside the gymnasium doors, waiting for the roster to be posted. Timothy projects confidence on the outskirts of this middle school birthmark until Coach Rodrigo posts the sheet of paper and looks at him and only him before walking away. The boys flock to the door, but Timothy stays back and watches their reactions. Some are excited, and others are disappointed. There is no middle reaction outside middle school, and Timothy is no exception when he doesn’t see his name amongst those who made the cut. It’s a sting he carries with him.

Kate is a paralegal at Constatine & Son. She types ferociously as her employer dictates legal bullshit. The time at the bottom-right of her computer is going backwards. It’s been 3 PM or 3:02 for 3 hours. She had an extra glass of wine the night before and ate an extra grilled cheese at lunch. Out the window, across the street, is a gas station with Alka-Seltzer.

She walks to and from work, amongst the brown brick of the city. Her neighbors water their window garden and cook dinner. Every home is lit with an ember. She waves at Timothy at the end of the block, and he waves back. They both smile.

They listen to music while they make dinner, and they dance more than they cook. They dance like no one is watching. They laugh and talk while they eat. Her son makes fun of her sweater, a stitched affair with a heart across her chest. She tells him it’s time for a haircut, and he tells her he doesn’t think so.

“I almost had this dream last night,” he says.

“Sounds like the time you almost wet the bed,” says his mom.

“Mom!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“I dreamt I was in the NBA.”

She smiles and nods.

“You know what you have to do to get in the NBA?”

“I know, I know.”

He finishes his science homework on the couch while she does the dishes. He picks up his Math book and receives another cold tingle, but curiosity has a particularly interesting piece of bait on its hook, and he bites. Whatever is written on the paper must be some hideous creation, some demeaning sketch, or demoralizing slang she usually throws his way in the form of a punch or shove. His stomach curls. He sits and looks at the sheet of paper for another 10 minutes. He sighs and flattens it out. On it, written in the handwriting he has seen all over the hallways, in the boys and girls bathrooms, was: I love you. Gulp.

The rest of the night is difficult. Timothy does not sleep. He is going to see her tomorrow. He sees her every day. There is nothing he can do about that.

“I’m sick,” he says.

Kate feels his head.

“Of what?”

“The plague!”

“The plague?”

“The plague, mom.”

“Take a shower, get dressed, and we’ll go to the doctors.”

“Ok.”

Their car is a small red piece of crap. They have agreed on this many times, and to their astonishment, it starts despite sitting in the garage for six months. It is snowing, and she drives him to school.

“What!”

“Someone with the plague cannot eat 10 pancakes.”

“But!”

“Is this about not making the team?”

“No!”

“What’s going on?”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

“I probably wouldn’t.” She hands him his mathbook. “Have a great day, honey.”

He takes it and sighs. He pretends to run away but jogs back to the front door after Kate slams on the brakes. They wave to each other.

She turns on the radio and hears a song that makes her weep. The angel weeps as well. A hand falls on his shoulder. He grabs it.

“If I didn’t exist, would her pain go away?”

“No, her happiness would.”

“I just want them to be happy.”

“They are.”