September 3: "Christmas Sparrow," First Day of School, Puking Son

Tonight's post was supposed to be about my son's first day as a high school junior.  I had it all planned out, picture and everything.

Life or God had another plan.  At 5:45 a.m., my son came into my bedroom to tell me he'd just thrown up.  Ten minutes later, he threw up again in the kitchen sink.  Needless to say, he spent his first day of school at home, alternately hugging a pillow and a bucket.  

Billy Collins gets woken up by a sparrow . . . 

Christmas Sparrow

by: Billy Collins

The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent—

wings against glass as it turned out
downstairs when I saw the small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of glass into the spacious light.

Then a noise in the throat of the cat
who was hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap of a basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.

On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a shirt and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.

But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
it burst into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.

For the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms as I wondered about
the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.

I've loved this poem for many years.  Collins somehow manages to write about Christmas without any sentimentality or nostalgia.  Yet, there's a sense of peace and wonder at the end of it, that "rare, lucky sparrow" perched in a holly bush as snow tumbles down from the heavens.  I'm almost tempted to say "amen" after reading it.

It's difficult writing about certain topics without becoming syrupy and maudlin.  Christmas.  Love.  Puppies.  Your kids.  How do I write about my son without resorting to hyperboles of parental adoration?  It's easy to pluck cheap heartstring moments.

So, I will tell you that I was frustrated with this morning's little monkey wrench.  Before my son vomited the second time, I was actually thinking he was just trying to get one more day of summer vacation.  That's Bad Parenting 101.  Of course, I love my son, but I felt the ghost of my father taking possession of me at one point, these words sitting on my tongue:  "You know, I never missed school.  I had to be bleeding out of every orifice before your grandmother would let me stay home sick."

I didn't say that.  Instead, I gave him a bucket.  Felt his forehead (it was hot).  Told him to go back to bed.  Before I left for work, I reminded him to drink water during the day to stay hydrated.  I sort of felt like Billy Collins capturing that sparrow in a shirt and releasing it into the waiting hemlocks.

My son is feeling better.  He told me he's going to school tomorrow morning.  I went for a walk with my wife and puppy after dinner tonight.  The sun was a brilliant gold cataract in an orange sky.  It stopped me dead in my tracks for a moment with its beauty.  

Saint Marty needed that reminder:  God's eye is on the sparrow, and the sunset, and a puking 15-year-old boy.