DON’T LOOK TOO HARD…

DON’T LOOK TOO HARD…

You may find something!

Recently, after hurricane Irene, I had a little time to kill and decided to see what lay behind our bedroom side tables, with the double doors. I never go into them, so this was going to be an adventure and maybe treasure hunt for me.

Getting down on my knees, I opened the doors and inside was some manila envelopes, and some interesting albums. Reaching for the thick white album, I immediately realized it was my wedding album.

Slowly I turned the pages of 40 years ago, and suddenly I was living in the past once again, remembering the old days. The bride was beautiful, too beautiful for the groom, who resembled Woody Allen with his thick black-framed glasses that were the rage of the early ‘70’s. Paging through, I saw my grandmother, parents, family and friends, all gathered to wish the newly wedded couple luck in their lives. Closing the album, a thinner one with a blue cover sat ready for my inspection. The cover gave it away somewhat since it said: ”It’s a boy!”

In the cover was a sheet that had a baby’s footprints and mom’s thumb print.

“Ah!” thought I, it was from when #1 Son was born. There was no name on the paper, so I decided to go through the book and read about #1 Son. The memories started to roll, quickly, like coming attractions in a movie theatre: the baseball and basketball games, the games of catch in the yard, the fun at the kitchen table as we joked and I told stories and he laughed.

Then I started to turn the page and the birth date caught my eye. Something was wrong, the birthday was wrong. It read 4/6/79! A knife immediately pierced my chest, taking all the air from my lungs and leaving me numb once again. Those little footprints belonged to my son Joseph, the book was 32 years old, and there were no memories to fill it with. Just like the last sentence’s period, the period this time was loud and resounding, echoing the fact that it was an empty book, and a very short life it noted. There was even a little envelope attached to a page that said: “A lock of baby’s hair”. I lifted the flap to peek inside, and it too was empty. The pain increased and I was forced to close the book and put it away.

I drifted to the piano and toyed the keys, playing a melancholic melody, which I had no control over, and then realized: the world was waiting. I needed to laugh once more, and maybe make someone else laugh, even at my expense.

You know, basically I love to live and laugh, poking fun of myself is easy, and it doesn’t hurt anyone, but behind it all seems to be a big fat hurt, that says: “Don’t go looking too hard, you may not want to find anything.”