Love Hurts

I stood there aching as I watched my son count the money he had received from Drake.

“Wow, there’s over two thousand dollars here!”

I tried reaching out, to make my presence felt by him, to try to communicate my need for him not to take this bastards’ money or his help. Sure, it seemed free and easy money now, but Drake never gave anything away for free. He always collected in spades on any investment he made. I had learned this lesson the hard way. I desperately wanted Kenny to avoid learning these lessons the way I had.

Something in what I was doing seemed to be having an effect. After totalling it up and inspecting his ticket, he appeared to grow introspective. He put the ticket on the kitchen table, put the wad of cash in his pocket and wrapped his arms around himself, like he was cold again. He grew pensive and quiet.

Soon he was leaving the kitchen, heading back to his bedroom. I followed behind, continuing to put out firm but gentle pressure to alert him to my actual presence. Once in his room, Kenny reached up to one of the shelves for his sports memorabilia that I had put up for him so many years ago, pulled down the baseball glove that had the word ‘Dad’ written on it with black, indelible ink that was now lightly faded. He slipped the glove onto his hand and grasped the old, yellowed baseball that was cradled within. I remembered that was the ball I had caught for him at Tiger Stadium when we went to his first pro baseball game. That ball had been hit out of the park by Alan Trammell, the Tiger’s great shortstop at that time, who had later autographed the ball for us when I had used my badge to get us into the clubhouse to meet some of the players.

The memories of our time together as father and son came flooding back to me as I watched him aching for those times as well. Tears were flowing down his cheek as he held the ball and glove tightly to his chest.

Our connection in that moment was timeless, wordless and utterly precious. I came closer to him, reached my arms out around him and tried to cradle him in love. His gentle tears broke into wracking sobs as he collapsed to the floor, glove and ball still held tightly to his chest.

“Please don’t go to Florida, Kenny. I love you. I miss you so much.” I whispered this over and over into his ear as I held him as tightly as I could.

Somehow, someway, my words came through. He looked up into my face, his eyes red and swollen, “I miss you too, Dad. I won’t go. I don’t know why, but I can feel you here right now with me, I won’t go if it means so much to you. I love you, Dad. Please come back again soon. Jasmine and mom need you too!”

I noticed that the baseball had fallen from his fingers, it lay on the carpetting, the now faded signature of Trammell facing up at us. Using every bit of spiritual muscle I could gather, I concentrated on picking the ball up. At first it just kind of rocked back and forth until I was able to get a better feel for the forces I needed to exert to pick it up. Finally though I was able to bring the ball up off of the floor until it was floating in front of him.

Kenny noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, looked at the ball floating there, then looked back up to where my face was. “Dad, you really are here, aren’t you?!” He reached the glove out beneath the ball, open and ready to receive it.

I bobbed the ball up and down just once, like a nod, then dropped the ball into his waiting glove.

The glove closed around the ball then was brought back close to his chest as he started sobbing again.

One more time I reached my arms around him, poured all of the love and energy I could into him and whispered softly, but firmly into his ear. “I will be back, I promise. I love you.”