My son had his look of concentration. It’s what he wore for doing his very best at something. In this case: running what he considered fast. Tongue out like an aerial. Running across the backyard and shouting to me, “No base! Just you have to catch me!” That’s when he tripped and went over. He got up again, stuck one hand out to the side, and steadied himself against the air. It fluttered a little, his hand. He got up and took off in the same direction. He yelled, “Don’t let me get to base!” I was about to say I thought there was no base. That’s when he fell over. He didn’t get up. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like the ground had come up and knocked the wind out of him. I saw the blood at his temple. I put my hand on it thinking that doesn’t belong, let’s get it covered up while we sort all this out. My wife Julia found us. Others came. I pressed my hand there thinking they’re in the way, how’s he going to get up, all of them standing there. More people came. I kept my hand there don’t listen don’t listen to them my boy don’t listen. It was my wife Julia who saw the spigot. It was there when we bought the house, a burr-like bit of pipe jutting up out of the grass alongside the garage door. It didn’t even work. We’d cut off the water after the feeder line froze and burst one winter and, from underneath, put a crack across the driveway grievous enough to stop a son’s scooter the hard way on four or twenty-five occasions but mission-neutral enough for a father to ignore for years. Julia saw the spigot. The spigot had his blood on it. We used to joke about that spigot. Imagine. Navy’s worst periscope. Satan’s hard-on. Long-distance vacuum tube ending identically in a nice Chinese family’s backyard on the other side of the world.
Fix the cracks. Fix every crack. Lay comprehensive waste to protrusions. Let him think you think there is a base, yes. Kiss his saltine-smelling head every chance, yes. But don’t just be grateful. Shame on you for just being grateful. Take care of your luck.
Julia pointed when she saw the spigot and screamed. That is what happened because she remembers it and tells me it’s what happened. I don’t remember it. I remember David’s hand and the way it fluttered, like he was trying to hold onto something he couldn’t depend on. His face didn’t change. He didn’t look asleep. His eyes were open. He was trying hard. They say I wouldn’t move my hand away until I was helped to do so by Julia, two paramedics, two police officers, and my next-door neighbor Steve Maniscalco, six-foot-four and two-seventy-five. What I remember is that boy’s hand fluttering, moving his hand like he was trying to wave goodbye. Why would I move my hand for anything.
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