Over the weekend a blogger friend posted a photo of a boy, perhaps age ten, who had died of cancer. The boy, and his family, were friends of her family and she was sharing his picture as a tribute.
I stared at the boy’s face, which reminded me of the face I had seen a week earlier, when I was jogging through my neighborhood. As I was approaching one of my favorite houses, painted rust with blue shutters, I saw parents, and a child, by the front steps of the walkway. The parents were talking to their son, who was crouched down, weeding.
Before the boy turned towards me, I knew he was ill. His head was nearly bald, covered only by downy tufts of hair. His skin was tinged yellow, blue veins showing just beneath the surface. I guessed he was around ten.
He must have heard my footsteps because he turned towards me before I reached him. We locked eyes for a moment. I can still see his expression. It said so many things. Resigned. Poignant. Tired. I’m used to people staring at me.
I glanced at his parents, who seemed not to notice me. They stood on the other side of the steps, watching their son yank weeds from the earth, telling him he was doing a good job. I noted how calm they looked, how accepting. I wondered if that’s the space you get to, when your child is dying of cancer. I wondered if I would have that kind of grace.
I passed the house and headed to the end of the block. It was a stunning early summer afternoon. Clear blue sky, sunshine glinting off the grass. A glorious day, perfect, except for a child dying young.
Maybe he wouldn’t die, I thought, as I crossed the street, rounding the corner towards home. Maybe he would recover.
When I got home, I hugged Franny.
* * *
Last Sunday, shortly after I saw my friend’s blog post with the photo of the boy, I took another jog. My usual route, through the pocket of Victorian and Craftsman homes on wide lawns. It was another stunning summer afternoon. Clear blue overhead, sun kissing the trees.
As I passed the rust-colored house, I looked at the vast front lawn, empty today. I spotted a vase of flowers on the doorstep. It was a small, round glass container and it held yellow blooms. I could just make out an envelope taped to the glass. It was an odd sight, really. This massive house, with a tiny, delicate globe of flowers perched in front.
The size, the simplicity of the offering, was just right for a child.
* * *
Yesterday morning I sent a Facebook message to my blogger friend. I told her about the house, and the boy, and the flowers. I asked her if the child she posted about had lived in my neighborhood. Yes, she said. That was him. She told me his name.
I thought of the house, and the lawn, and the flowers. That particular pocket where the house stands is Rockwellian. Rambling, old homes built for big families. Wide, tree-lined streets. I remembered how quiet it had been when I jogged past, how deceptively normal.
I started to cry. I didn’t know him, or his family. But one week he was there, yanking weeds. And the next week he was gone.
Beautiful piece, Pauline…
This is heartbreaking. What else can I say? Truly heartbreaking.
It’s amazing how one child, one look, one encounter can resonate so strongly. Thank you for writing this, Pauline — it’s beautiful.
Thanks, Elizabeth. Still can’t get over the six degrees factor in all of this.
This post was hard to read, because it was beautifully written and as such I felt the pain of it.
I have been the bald patient that knows how to shrug off stares. But the grief of a parent, it is too much to fathom. I would rather have cancer a hundred times than watch my daughter go through it, and I’d trade my life for hers if it came to that. But of course we don’t get to choose, and that is why it hurts so damn much. I wish Katherine was here so that I could give her a hug….no, that’s not it. I want to give her a hug, yes, but mostly I want to receive one, to feel her in my arms, to touch her to know that she is okay.
Prayers for the parents in their grief. And for that innocent boy. And for all of us.
That is so sad. I cannot imagine what it would be like to have my child die. If I even start to imagine it, it torments me.
A very old lady used to live near me. Once, we were in the elevator and I asked her if she had children (since she was admiring my daughter). She burst into tears and said, “Yes, I have three. Actually, I HAD three. My son died last year. He was 65, but it still hurts like hell. No one should have a child die before them.”
She died herself about a year later, poor lady, but I still get teary-eyed thinking about how upset she was.
What an elegant, touching tribute to this boy and his family. Pauline, you really are such a talented writer. I can almost touch that ‘delicate globe of flowers’, dwarfed by the impressive house behind it.
Thank you, Matt.
A friend of mine forwarded your piece – not Elizabeth – who follows you. She realized that the piece was about our son Gus. All I can say is thank you. He was a very special child. He truly noticed everyone that was one of his many gifts. I am so glad your souls got to meet if only for a second.
I’m glad you read it and that it meant something to you. I still have such a vivid memory of locking eyes with him. I am so sorry for your loss.
My daughter forwarded the piece you wrote about my grandson Gus, and I thank you so much for writing so beautifully about your brief encounter with him. My ten years with him felt just like the moment you locked eyes with him, such a very, very short time to be with a wonderful little boy. It is bad enough having to bury your own son/daughter , but for grandparents to bury a grandchild, is unforgivable. It is very difficult for me to visit the rust colored house with blue shutters, I am so looking forward for him opening the front door for me and welcoming me with a huge smile. Thank you for noticing the little boy crouched down weeding, that was my little boy with a big heart Gus.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts about the piece, and Gus, Maria. He certainly left a mark in his short time with us. All my best to you and your family.