To the faint of heart...
      Let never a soul be lost
      Let never a face go unsmiling
      Let never a one be harmed
          & never live for life is never true.

To My Son...

My son was not more than a week old when he died and yet I'm sure there was something more to his life than mere unforgiveness. It was a cruel turn of the hand... that old magician death was quicker than the eye.

I miss that boy so. Why, he had more splendor than a peacock has plumage! And the wit he had! Although (I must confess) he was a bit hard to understand for he had no teeth to make proper pronouncements (he was a babe after all) I quickly found him a source of many a laughable parlay.

So many a bout we had. A propounded tournament of the wicked two edged sword and what a duelist he was! So many a time I thought I would lose to the mere maggot!

By this time you must know that we quarreled quite a bit. For, in my opinion, what better use is the first few months of life than to become adapted to be the devil's advocate, which is what we as humans do best, and there by getting a leg up on the competition? As sparse time we had together it was all well worth the exercise of the jaws (how else is one to keep their jaw strong enough to chew the tough suet that mendicants such as we must eat?).

At the end of day three his liege (he had no name yet for the bumpkin could not decide upon one) demanded full retribution for the loss of face incurred on the preceding two day gambit over secured loan documents or in progress divorce papers made the better paper weight when the use of origami was applied. He was so upset he did not even care to take up his bottle all afternoon and evening (of course I was alarmed for I know how much he enjoyed his scotch). He then proceeded with the silent treatment.

Oh, but what he had asked! Any mother would have blown her stack! To give in and say I was wrong! It was nothing less than calumny! But in the end, in an effete state, I gave in all right. I gave in to an improper compulsion.

"Well if you wish to talk to no one anymore I'll help you on your way to be a recluse!" was all I said as I pushed his veiled (like me he disliked sunlight) bassinet into the basement and booted it across the cement floor along with his arch-enemy Scrud, the family hound, in way of a lagniappe.

Then when I sat down, slowly cooling off, I realized what an odious act it was. Even if that little blight was deserving his youth held him exempt from punishment. Oh Lord what have I done!

I fumbled with the lock to the basement and swung the door open with one violent shove and beheld the bassinet toppled with the hell-hound gnawing on a swaddled bundle. I booted the dog and he went sailing--nay, flying with his hound ears acting as wings and yelping with the noisy joyousness of a bird. I dived for the tiny bundle that was my son only to find it--

"EMPTY!" I exclaimed. My eyes darted about the cement floor and then realization dawned.

The day before we had settled down before the fire place and napped with the hound at my feet and Pharaoh, the house cat, at my babe's side. I thought it a cute sight and worthy of a rendition in oil. When the next morning came I left the tyke to better acquaint himself with Pharaoh (for the two seemed to have the same lone wolf streak) and went about my business and quite forgot the pair.

Why, innocent babe! He had not been ignoring me. He had simply not been in the crib and with the thick veil I couldn't tell!

I dashed upstairs to find my babe. He was there all right--deathly still and with Pharaoh staring down on him from atop his chest! That demon cat had used him as a mattress all morning and had quite smothered the child--in effect Pharaoh had deprived my son of his breath! Oh horrors!

So now I'm here missing the lout. In the chilling morning breeze I dream of holding him in my arms again. I always knew he was my angel and if he be an angel than I too must be for like gives life to like (for a dog cannot become a cat so I've heard). I looked out the attic window of our house and beheld the white dawn.

I spread my wings--and fell.

© 1997

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Asdzani Bah & her Pandora Box