Honea Express

He stood at the top of the stairs and waited for me to notice him. He held a tiny arm in his, making his own appear massive by comparison. One end of the tiny arm was a gloved hand frozen in an eternal wave. The other end was torn and littered with fluff. He stood at the top of the stairs and he didn’t say a word.

“Is it Mickey?” I asked. He nodded that it was.

“It’s Zane’s,” he said. His younger brother was downstairs doing his homework and eating his fill of little fish crackers.

“He doesn’t know,” he added. “The dogs did it. I found it in the bedroom.”

The dogs hadn’t chewed anything they shouldn’t in years, but the past few weeks had found them inside the house more often than not, and they had grown bored and weary. The various stuffed animals of the boys had become a means to burn energy and take out frustrations. At first it was a random rabbit here, a gruff old gorilla there — the fringes of a stuffed animal collection grown to an awkward abundance, and while I knew the dogs were in the wrong I was silently thankful for their natural thinning of the herd.

The boys took to placing their fiber-filled friends under beds, stuffed in closets, and behind doors that only thumbs could open. Then, when days passed with toys left unmolested, the closets became careless, the doors a little less shut, and through a house cold and empty the dogs would hunt.

There is a hierarchy to all things, and the stuffed toys of a little boy are no different. There are levels of love and shades of real that we have all known and most have forgotten, but a handful of mouse held tight against the chest hears the last goodnight from day-worn lips, keeps time with the beat of a heart warm and sleeping, and greets the day with sweet embrace. That is the real of a favorite toy, and to a little boy with sleep in his eyes, it is a real that lasts for always¹.

The older boy and I walked down the stairs. I held his hand in mine, and he held the glove in his other. We found his brother mid-smile, with a ray of sunshine across his face and his hair a golden tussle. I held the moment as long as I could, willing the story to end on this page, but my oldest son is one of duty and honor, and where I would hide in the bask of a sun-kissed boy until the sky was shades of fading pinks, orange and purple, he did the thing he felt he must. There was an exchange from one brother to the other, and then the sun set suddenly beneath the weight of tears.

We have lost loved ones throughout the years, and learned from pets the concept of passing, and while a stuffed mouse may not belong in the same line as those that meant so much, the happiness he brought deserves to be acknowledged. He was the toy we would have kept forever.

My son stood crying, his face buried against my leg, each hand full of pieces that would never go back together, a plush puzzle with parts forever missing. Then there was a soft tapping upon his shoulder and when he turned he saw the face of a memory, and behind it that of his brother.

“He is your Mickey,” whispered the youngest.

“You can hold him for awhile,” replied the other. He handed his favorite toy to his only brother, and then my boys stood in the kitchen and they hugged one another, tiny arms around tiny arms and a mouse tight between them with a smile that never wavered, and it never would.

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¹ Paraphrased from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams: “One day while talking with the Skin Horse, the Rabbit learns that a toy becomes real if its owner really and truly loves it. The Skin Horse makes the Velveteen Rabbit aware that “…once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.””

This post has been nominated for BlogHer’s Voices of the Year, which is quite an honor. Please feel free to vote for it!

The kids are home from school today. I asked them if they knew why.

“Because it’s a holiday,” said the oldest.

“It’s Dr. King’s day,” said the youngest.

I asked them if they knew why we celebrated the life and achievements of Martin Luther King.

“Because it’s a holiday,” said the oldest.

“Because he did great things for civil rights,” said the youngest.

And then he sang a song about the man and what those great things were. The works of Dr. King had been the primary focus of his kindergarten curriculum for the previous week, and he had taken it to heart, for that is where his songs are kept.

I looked at the oldest, “Haven’t they talked about Dr. King at school?”

“No.”

“Do you remember me talking to you about him last year?”

“Kind of.”

And then I sat down and explained to two small children about ignorance and hate and how they manifested themselves in the belly of a nation.

“That’s like that Nina Simone song,” said the oldest, and I smiled softly, because it certainly was. Then he hummed a few bars.

I spoke in gentle detail about harsh realities, and I couldn’t help but regret the need to do so. Their faces were alive with disgust and confusion, and the more we spoke the more another layer of innocence slipped away.

“Were they Nazis?” asked the oldest. That was an evil he understood. Between The Sound of Music, Indiana Jones, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks he was well-versed in the fear such a movement could cause. It caused great fear in him.

“They were people that had been taught to hate,” I said. “Dr. King taught them to dream and love.”

“I wonder why we didn’t talk about it at school,” he said as his voice drifted off in the direction of the open window, and his thoughts seemed to follow.

“People still need to dream,” he said.

His 8-year-old wisdom was deeper than anything I could offer, so we let it hang there in the air around us. The boys both pressed close against me with a tenderness they reserve for moments of quiet and reflection, and the moment became just that.

Then the youngest sang his song in careful whisper and the oldest sat still, his arms around his brother, his head upon my heart, and he listened.

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Photo by Emma Rödjer; drawings by the kindergarten class

“Do you know what a resolution is?” I asked them. Both boys shook their heads from left to right and back again. This indicated that no, they did not.

“In the case of a new year,” I continued, “it is an attempt to do things differently, and hopefully better.”

“Why do you do it at the new year?” asked the youngest.

“A new year, according to the calendar, is a new beginning. It’s a fresh start. Everybody loves a clean slate.”

“So people do things that don’t make them happy all year, and then they try to stop on January first?” asked the oldest.

“Now you’ve got it!” I said.

“What’s your resolution, Daddy?”

“Same as last year,” I answered. “It’s a work in progress.”

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New Year’s Eve found us on the crowded paths of Disneyland. The masses were armed with noisemakers, churros, and matching party hats. As far as mob mentality goes, joyful celebration is probably my favorite — although I do enjoy a good monster chase (when else am I going to use my pitchfork and torch?). It was almost 8 p.m., and we were feeling every hour of it. And then some.

“Family up,” I said above the din of the revelry. It was a new term I was trying out. It had a bit of the Phil Dunphy to it. My wife wasn’t sold.

“Here are our options,” I explained to the boys. “It’s very fun in here, but it’s also kind of crazy. The lines are too long to ride anything. We can walk around the park until midnight, go over to Disney’s California Adventure, or stroll through Downtown Disney on the way back to the hotel.”

“Hotel.” They said in unison. My wife also said it, but I had known her answer going in. Hers was a vote of moral support and confidence. Also, she knew we had wine in the room.

And so it was that we strolled through Downtown Disney as promised. We listened to live music. We bought candy apples. The boys spent their Christmas money at the Lego store.

The Disneyland Hotel was quiet. Not even a mouse stirred. There were Legos, glasses of wine, a good book and a warm bed. There were cartoons on the television, which, to boys that don’t have a TV, is almost as exciting as the park we had left.

My wife was asleep by 9:30.

Around 10:45 I announced that the lights were going off. There was whining, complaints, and futile attempts at logic and reason. I told the boys that if they were still awake at midnight we could turn the TV back on and watch the ball drop. They had no idea what I was talking about, but since it included television they assumed it must be a good deal and they took it.

They were asleep by 10:46. I was right behind them.

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The distance closed with flashes and echoes. It started above a castle and just kept going. Boom! Boom! Boom! Firework after firework filled the sky. It sounded like a battle, and perhaps it was — the fight between a new year entering and one not quite ready to leave. The curtains were too thick to betray our darkness, but along the floor crept the occasional dance of bright lights and brilliance. There was singing from the ground below, so many Whos, and their voices carried into the night on the backs of booms and hopes filled with laughter.

“Do you hear that?” I asked the room. The only reply was steady breath and slight snores. And then, as quickly as they had appeared, the noises ended. It was just us, an empty bottle of wine, a floor full of Legos, and a TV sitting dark and forgotten.

“Happy New Year,” I whispered.

Steady breath. Slight snores. So far the year was perfect.