Parents' Eyes (A Cruel Trick of Life, Really)

I remember being held in her arms as she walked up a familiar street toward our family home.  I was five years old but my mom cradled me like a baby.  I remember looking out from her arms at the neighbors' juniper bushes that lined the sidewalk.  She didn't carry me far, only half a mile, past all the Eichler homes, from the hospital to our house.  Memories of that afternoon are only flashes, but each flash, to this day, has always been vivid. 


I remember waking up, I was now indoors, in a classroom, there were two adults in the room, I was sitting up, and I remember the red of the blood that was caked on the side of a little girl's head as she sat next to me.  I remember that boy, he seemed so much older and out of place, swinging down with a wood handle metal hammer toward that little girl's head.  I remember that she was smaller than me.  I remember jumping off my swing and landing in sand.  I hadn't done that before.  I remember my feet as they hit the sand, the blacktop schoolyard, the blue classroom doors, the girl.  I remember that raised hammer in his hand as I ran towards them - compelled to protect her.  When I reached her I pushed her away from him as hard as I could.  What I didn't foresee was the five shots to my head - with that hammer.


I don't remember being struck.  I don't remember the hospital.  My last happy memory of that day was floating on a swing next to my friend Eric Lewis.  I was so happy to be playing with Eric. It felt like I had a best friend.  My first real accomplishment.  But something unknown triggered me to jump off that swing, and in that moment, life was changed.  I later learned that the four year old girl was named Erin.  I still wonder about her.  She was hit only once, with a glancing, nasty blow.  The older boy was named Jason.  I never saw either of them again. 


For most of my life, I had always thought I was somehow a hero in a childhood story - an event that was all about me.  But deeper meaning hit me years later, only after I became a dad.  Now I see through parent's eyes.  I can very much imagine what my mom must have been thinking.  I can imagine how she felt as she cradled me on that slow walk home.  I learned that this story wasn’t all about me.  How could it be.  It's a cruel trick of life, really — that you never truly know how much your parents love you until you have a child of your own. 


I only wish my mom was still here for me to show her how much I could've loved her back...