For Your Son

He had his ear pierced, even though he was older. We used to joke with our dad about getting an earring in his 50s, like Harrison Ford. Piercing your ear after your 20s doesn’t make you seem cool and hip, it makes you seem like you never quite outgrew that foolish mindset.

His eyes were a deep brown, like the fertile land America was built upon. They seemed to contain as much history as the land. His face was creased; not quite wrinkled but not smooth either. His clothes were non-descript. Who notices the small leaf next to the mighty tree?

“Excuse me, Miss,” He said, stopping me on the street. “Are you familiar with the area?” I glanced around, a bit wary of being approached by a stranger, even though it was broad daylight.

“Yes,” I said, hesitant.

He seemed to have more and more lines in his face. It was as if someone had cut into a great tree and started counting the rings on the surface of the trunk, and with each numbered ring, a matching line appeared on his face.

“I’ve been trying to buy a bus ticket all day,” he said, keeping a respectable distance. I relaxed. “I’ve been to the Greyhound station and the ticket is thirty dollars. I’ve tried to go to some places around here and some of the local churches but everything is closed because of some festival.”

“So you’re trying to find somewhere to buy a Greyhound ticket?” I asked, not sure what the problem was. He heaved a great sigh and looked at me with those ancient, deep eyes.

“Here’s the situation: I’ve been in the hospital downtown all week.” He hesitated for a second. “My son passed away this morning-”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry,” I said, not able to look him in the eye anymore. I glanced down and saw, for the first time that he was holding a stuffed elephant. My heart broke. I looked back to his face and he hid his eyes beneath his hands, the same thing all men do when they are overcome with emotion. After a moment he moved his hand and continued his story.

“We’re originally from San Antonio and my son’s body is being shipped back there. I’ve been to all the places to get a ticket.”

I was very confused. I wasn’t sure what he was asking me. Did he want money? Did he want directions? Did he want a ride?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really don’t know anything about the Greyhound busses.”

The man just sighed and looked at me with those haunted, haunting eyes.

“I have the worst headache. And I have to get back to San Antonio.” He started to back away.

“I’m sorry. I really don’t know what to tell you…” I couldn’t even make sense of the conversation before it was over. He continued on his way, and I continued on mine.

I walked briskly, the summer sun shining down on me, and my heart slowly started to crumble. I wanted to turn back and run to his side. I wanted to hug him, to offer him the fourteen dollars burning a hole in my pocket. I wanted to let him talk to me, to cry to me, to tell me about his son. But I didn’t do any of those things.

I kept walking.

Why didn’t I help him? Was I afraid? Was I confused? Was it because I thought he might get violent? Because he was a stranger? Because he was an older man? Because he was black?

Why didn’t I help him? I’m so sorry, sir. I’m sorry that you felt compelled to reach out to me for compassion and all I could muster was a shallow apology. I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry I’ll never know if you’re okay. I’m sorry I didn’t think of any of these things until it was too late.

I hope you got where you needed to go. I hope someone was kinder than I was, more compassionate than I was. I hope your heart heals and that you learn to accept the loss of your son. I hope you know you were a great father and that your son was proud to be your son.

I hope your son took pride in being your son and made you proud, as I have failed my Father by failing you. I hope he was a better son than I am daughter.

I hope every father, omnipotent or earth-bound, who has lost a son, can forgive me. It will be a long time before I can forgive myself.

I’m so sorry.