David, Martin, and Her

She watched David lift little Martin into the air, and the simple gesture swept thirty years away. So when she looked at David, she saw him as her little son, perfect and precious, the way he was when she was a young mother. Before either of them had been wounded by life's stray artillery. Before the war inside them, sustained by their own unruly forces. Before her anger had driven a wedge between her and David's father. Before Alice died, bequeathing David a furious rage that had nearly consumed his heart before he was able to fight it off.

No, when David lifted a laughing Martin in the air, a plump and silly bird, the ravages of all those years melted. Martin laughed, a crazy giggle that took joy down from its hook. That giggle unhinged sorrow's door. She clapped and ran to them and joined the fun.

Martin had David's ears. What a funny thing to say, but it was true. The same peculiar crescent fold near the back. And his laugh caught in his throat and repeated the same way David's had when he laughed. When he was a little boy. What a little boy he had been. Curious and frivolous and profound all at once. He had produced a butterfly from his pocket once, and set it free in the kitchen.

"I think it's hungry, mama." That's what he said. So safe, so secure, so cared for. He never behaved entitled to comfort and security, but still he had the expectation that everyone, every thing, even butterflies, could have as much. And that was all she and William had ever wanted. To raise up in the child the belief that life passed smoothly, that it was good. They had done a marvelous job of it, until life grew too large, and showed them all whose schedule they were on.