The first day of Summertime

Last Saturday, I had the honor of meeting a baby boy, 3 months old. He was wrapped in swaddling clothes, with his arms held snugly to his chest. He lay in his stroller, his oxygen tube taped to his little nose, obscuring his features. Other tubes snaked alongside him, draining the hole in his skull that failed to close before birth, and wicking away his wastes. He struggled with the cloth that bound him, seeming desperate to move, if even just a little.
His Daddy and Mommie were there at the bar, too. Every so often, they would stroll over to glance at him where he lay, washed in the flashing lights of the amusement game that was there.  The kind you put in quarters for the kids to try to hook or grab a plush toy. Through the smoke, the lights made a kind of eerie, sarcastic glow on the boy...He would probably never survive.

The struggles had been great, for the parents. They had suffered every day, seeing the baby born with so much wrong. Visiting in the hospital. They deserved their night out with friends, they said. The baby was fine, he's breathing entirely in his own environment, they said. He smiled, and sung Kareoke. So did The Mommy.

 This was the song I didn't dare to sing that night. A lull-a-bye for the baby boy who might never see an open field of flowers, might never swing in a tire, or throw a ball. It's a fantasy tale of grief and belief in the benevolence of God, when Life seems so grave, that lies are the kindest gift to give.