He was about seventeen-years-old when I met him. He was a robust boy, gangly, lanky, and eager to please. He sported the most delightful dimples, and his bronze skin spoke of health and sunshine. A lovely boy. Lovely!
The wind blew through the halls of my house on the tails of ghosts. Echoes resounded in every passage and at every entrance.
Winter had arrived in January, which should’ve been the warmest month of the year. The cold added an extra dimension of discomfort to the itinerary of problematic issues that abounded like mischievous demons.
But there he was.
And there I was.
“Hi,” he said with exuberance, sparkling like diamonds.
I couldn’t temper my smile. His hair was golden brown and floppy. He flicked it back repeatedly while introducing himself.
I loved him instantly, of course.
The child I'd never had...
Beautiful, beautiful child.
My heart ached just looking at him.
Michael was gone. It was not a fact I assimilated with ease.
My husband, so real, determined, and clever, had been whipped away by a fragile breeze. Never, ever, would I see him again.
Never, ever…
Instead, the world had contrived to present me with a child. An honest, underage child who contracted to work in our neighborhood, repairing things that people were unable to fix on their own.
He was clever.
Diligent, they said, the people who knew!
And bright.
I had always been thought of as clever, too!
But time and circumstance had eroded my glitter.
He glowed. Glitter lit up the place like a damn candle.
How odd!
My life was full. Full of Michael, career, and opportunity.
It crumbled like sand. Disease is a dreadful equalizer. A devil in disguise.
My heart. My love.
So lonely.
Then he was there.
I had to prepare lunch. He liked soda and sandwiches.
I had to find the ladder.
I had to find washing cloths.
I had to do things!
I think there was a purpose to the madness. Purpose I needed. A purpose for me.
The wonder of the moment didn’t strike all at once; it encroached slowly, like a moth fluttering on the wing.
Ashton was super, ridiculously poor.
Ashton liked tea. Who would’ve thought that a boy would admire the broth? But he did.
He mowed the lawn and asked for double helpings of lemonade.
He sanded down the wooden sliding doors and slathered extra butter on the subs I made.
How can you make a friend of a child?
How could he make a friend of me?
We sat for hour after hour, tea in hand.
His father drank too much.
His sister was an accomplished, underrated, and underpaid artist.
He wanted to be an engineer.
Bright, shining hope. How exquisite!
I found myself.
And he found me.
