Childness

Childness

(“May he bring you new life and strength while you are old. For your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is better to you than seven sons, has given birth to him.” Ruth 4:15)

I heard the tornado spin through a child’s voice over telephone waves;
whining close to his house, upstate New York, the report included noise
and possibilities of boys being lifted out of their shoes to land flat-footed
on the soft green lawn of the neighbor’s dream.

Twisting wind never frightened him, it was curiosity that connected him
to such progressive torque. Alive or dead were unconsidered, and nowhere
to be found in his equation of childness and caution. It was more important to
radio in the information to travelers along the way.

You see, we were wandering, with his beloved aunt and uncle on board,
and he could see the possibility of a carhop drive-thru pulling up to order
a little less wind. He left his uncle a voice mail, with authority, with concern,
but little quaver; simply the courage a seven year old boy knows when he is assigned
the task of warning other about tornadoes.

The love of grade school cousins, or the affection of four year old granddaughters
are gifts bestowed between black spike storms that scare even demons
to their death and adults to quiver at the edge of the turbulent precipice.

The love of cousins, the pure joy of granddaughters never dissipates the threats at all.
But their courage turns black to song, shy to joy, and tears…

Tears now flow, but from stories read in a fairy tale full of princes and princesses,
where granddaughters cry when the prince is pained, and the princess may never
see him again.

And for one moment, Papa and Ani see each other, tear to tear, and know
though the tornados may come yesterday again,
the pause is enough to love the world good night,
and wake for joy of another day far away from prospects
and expectations.