The aircar flung itself through the air at R17 and above, deposited them next to the Heart of Gold which stood starkly on the frozen ground like a bleached bone, and then precipitately hurled itself back in the direction whence they had come, presumably on important business of its own.
Shivering, the four of them stood and looked at the ship.
Beside it stood another one.
It was the Blagulon Kappa policecraft, a bulbous sharklike affair, slate-green in color and smothered with black stenciled letters of varying degrees of size and unfriendliness. The letters informed anyone who cared to read them as to where the ship was from, what section of the police it was assigned to, and where the power feeds should be connected.
It seemed somehow unnaturally dark and silent, even for a ship whose two-man crew was at that moment lying asphyxiated in a smoke-filled chamber several miles beneath the ground. It is one of those curious things that is impossible to explain or define, but one can sense when a ship is completely dead.
There is quite a bit of truth in the last statement of this little passage. When something is completely dead, you can sense it without even checking for power or a pulse. It exudes a kind of quiet that is unlike any other kind of quiet. A quiet that simply lacks any spark of life.
Tonight, my house is not dead. In fact, up until a few minutes ago, it was filled with adolescent excitement. It was my son's eleventh birthday today. We celebrated with cupcakes and singing and presents. My son did a little happy dance that was a cross between a hula and tango. He was quite excited.
It's difficult for me to believe that so much time has passed since the day I first saw him being wheeled out of the operating room in an incubator, on his way to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. He screamed his lungs out the whole way. Now, he's sleeping by himself, without the need for one of us to stick around until he drifts off.
He has grown up quite a bit, even since the beginning of the school year. He deals with his emotions better. Doesn't fly off the handle so much. Breathes himself through bouts of anger and frustration. Plus, he seems more sensitive and appreciative of all the stuff that my wife and I do for him every day. For example, he's saving his allowance right now to buy me a birthday present. That's right. Instead of blowing his cash on a new video game or pizza, he's stockpiling it to purchase something for me. Amazing.
Now, my son is fast asleep, dreaming sweet birthday dreams. I'm tempted to go into the dark bedroom and watch him for a while, like I used to do when he was sleeping in his crib as a newborn. I would stand next to him and just watch him breathe. It filled me with peace. Calmed my restless mind.
Saint Marty gives thanks for his son this evening. His deep, sleeping breaths. His goofy smile. His wide, generous heart.
Happy birthday, my sweet boy.
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