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The Blessing
by Don Powell
Why Steven? Why my boy? Why any of them for that matter? I was sitting on a bench in the middle of New York City, sitting there wondering how anyone could hate us that much. My hands held my head, but my face felt like it touched the ground, drooping like one of those Salvador Dali paintings. Everything felt that way, a heaviness drowning us. Everyone else stood around babbling about how Chris worked hard climbing the ladder just to get in the towers or how Trina bought a crib that day for the baby Ethan will never see. My poster had both, a picture of Steven bouncing Bobby on his knee and a picture of him after he passed the bar exam. I covered it from top to bottom with every picture I could find. It wasn’t doing any good though; only I could see it.
My elbows left impressions in the cardboard when I lifted them. Blood rushed back into the bottom of my legs, but the numbness remained. I closed my eyes, trying to bring him back. I wanted to picture the real Steven, not those flat falsifications.
The dark beige turned to red and then black. My eyes bounced back and forth. The inside of my eyelids was a sea, a dark, never-ending ocean. Images formed, but no Steven. That was a cruel trick to play on an old woman who just lost her only son. That’s it. Keep me from seeing him. Remind me now his face will begin to fade, like all the others, even if only at the edges.
Screams woke me. An ambulance just pulled into the hospital’s parking lot. I didn’t even stand up. Desperate hope was not a role I could play anymore. None of the people brought back from the site were alive. None! They were all corpses, and I hoped my Steven was too. But I suspected he was just ash. Steven worked in the top of one of the towers; I could never remember which was one and which was two. He didn’t have a chance. The others returned from the ambulance, most of them crying. I wondered when they’d learn. When would I learn? I was still sitting there, outside the hospital. I closed my eyes again.
I swam for what seemed like hours, but all I could see were the faces of all the people who loved him. What is Stacey going to do? What about Bobby? Surely she’ll have to work now. Still couldn’t get Steven. Why couldn’t I see him? His face appeared several times but only in imitations of the pictures, which were imitations as well. I was thinking that I should go. That’s what I was thinking. I suppose I had already decided to leave. Then, I saw him.
My eyes opened. I thought for sure he’d disappear. It’s difficult to keep imagining when your eyes are open. It happens. People daydream all the time. But I wasn’t dreaming, daydreaming, or imagining. I actually saw Steven.
He wore one of his many gray suits, a sharp one of course. I couldn’t tell you the maker because I never bought Steven clothes anymore, and I certainly couldn’t have afforded those suits when I did provide for him. No, Steven made much more money than his father and I ever did, combined. When I looked down at his shoes and back up, he smiled and mouthed his usual “Yes, of course they are, Mom.” I couldn’t hear him though. I didn’t have to. I knew my boy, and he knew all about my shoe complex. Steven’s father always had a problem picking shoes. He would never buy shoes that fit his clothes. Jack would spend a hundred and fifty dollars on a suit for work, but only twenty to thirty dollars on fake dress shoes. People notice those things.
Steven got my attention by waving a hand in front of my eyes. I was thinking, dear Jesus, I may never see Stevie this well again, and my mind is wandering! The gold cufflink on Steven’s sleeve grew brighter as it approached. He placed his hand on my knee, above the poster. I felt his heat through the cardboard. It kept getting hotter. Soon it was seeping into me. I wondered how all of this was happening. But then I couldn’t wind through my thoughts. It was as if my whole brain unraveled into one long tube, connecting me to Steven. Thoughts whizzed by. My son and I no longer existed as separate entities. Memories filled the pathway, both his and mine. Like his prom date. My memory ended with Stevie and that girl getting into his car, and then it picked up again when I heard him sneak in around five in the morning. When I saw him outside the hospital that awful day, I saw all of him, the whole date and everything else. I suppose he saw me too.
This downloading of information lasted for a lifetime I guess, his lifetime. I saw it all, well almost all. I couldn’t see what happened to him that day. I tried to focus the whole broadband-like connection on it, but it was not there. I focused my eyes on his again. This time he shook his head no. So many questions came, for I could see all of the events in his life, but I could not feel what he felt or know what he thought. Suddenly, he mouthed “Goodbye.” I started to ask him something. He only squeezed my knee through the poster and turned to leave.
He vanished when his grip released. I heard my poster hit the ground, but I was looking for Steven. I noticed a large, bright-yellow hand slip through a crack in the great wall of white that, then, swallowed it. I stood up and pushed my way through the group. No yellow hand. Then, I heard a familiar noise, almost had immediate déjà vu. A poster clanked on the street. I headed that direction. Another fell, and then, another. When I broke through to the hospital, I saw the group closest to the building staring straight ahead. Their posters lay on the pavement. I looked around. Still no hand, only a wall of cardboard. People were everywhere. You’d think the whole country had lost someone that day. I ran for a small opening and slid through it.
At that point, I started running, running through a cardboard box house, a haunted house to be sure. I kept running. I felt how Steven must have felt busting through those lines playing football. Eventually, the cardboard walls thinned and my poster carpet turned into something more like stepping stones in a river. Then, I saw him, a tall, rather large firefighter in black rubber gear. He must have been six and a half feet tall, and he wasn’t slender either. He more than adequately fit his suit. Black rubber boots, a large black fireman’s hat. What I could see of his face, which was very little as he faced away from me, also was black. I couldn’t tell if it was just ash or not. I tried to catch up to him. Posters fell all around me now.
I saw the yellow gloves, rubber of course like the rest. They reached up momentarily to tough each person. They didn’t remain there long. One touch was all it took to turn the people into zombies. As we moved away from the hospital, the light faded. Darkness crept in. At the same time, I could see those damn yellow gloves even better. It wasn’t long before I saw the shiny shield on his helmet. Panting and getting dizzy, I slowed down. He seemed to stay about the same distance ahead of me the whole time. After I caught my breath, I walked on. Soon, all I could see were the gloves and the metallic shield on his helmet. We had headed into the darkness. All of the electricity was out. Funny thing was, I never considered turning around or walking more slowly. I couldn’t fell anything under my feet. I was riding waves of ash toward him, but he was riding his own. The shield sparkled, and the gloves became the color of those glow-in-the-dark wands the kids twirl these days at fireworks displays. I heard nothing; I felt nothing. I smelled nothing. Only sight and that shield kept me oriented. Eventually even the shield faded away. I kept walking anyway, though I knew not where I was or where I was headed.
Finally, some light. I walked towards it, hoping to find a cab nearby. It was time to go home; I was tired. The light pierced the black and pushed it out of the way. Oh, dear Jesus, not here, not the towers. Tears ran down my cheeks and off my nose. This giant resting place, this largest pile of rubble, crawled with people, mostly firefighters, every face exhausted, every pair of eyes all pupils. Every once in a while, in unison, they would stop digging and listen. Nothing. The work continued. No black-clothed fireman in sight. No yellow gloves and no bright shields. All of the shields on those helmets were covered with grime.
After some time spent watching and crying, I noticed extra movement on the largest pile of twisted metal and miscellaneous debris. This pile was on the other side, too far away for me to get to. Someone would see me anyway and make me leave. Then, the shield shined brightly from the pile. This giant of a firefighter made his way up the pile slowly. I tried to see his face. Others followed him, but they weren’t firemen. A long line snaked downward, behind him. I could make out the top of the tower easily; it stood upright and marked the top of the mountain. My king climbed effortlessly. The line behind him similarly had little trouble.
Shouts muffled everything, traveling man-to-man, to inform everyone to stop working and listen again. Everyone stopped, except my dark angel, who continued to ascend the rubble. No one who followed him stopped either, except the man immediately behind him. This man did not listen; he only looked. First, he looked at the men who made the initial announcement. Next, he looked at me, and that’s when I saw them, the shoes, the shoes my son wore. I hollered as loud as I could, shouting his name. He shook his head no again, but I couldn’t stop. My chest heaved, and my shouts became indecipherable. Some firemen headed my way. I kept yelling. “Stevie! Stevie! Oh, Stevie!” When he looked up, the shield had reached the top. The giant savior stopped at the top and watched the others finish their climbs. One after another, they reached the top of the pile and disappeared behind it. I yelled my son’s name again. He gave a slight wave and continued his climb. My Steven was the last to reach the top of that tower, and, when he did, my dark knight in dark armor placed his large yellow glove on my boy’s shoulder. And, they vanished. Thousands of people were in that line. Thousands disappeared over the top of the tallest remnants of the towers. My sobs continued. I hadn’t even realized that I collapsed to the ground. As men carried me away, I noticed through my tears that one star shined through the smoke. But, it didn’t stay still or remain bright. It moved on up and away from us. I still see that star sometimes. I can see that star, and sometimes I can still see my Steven, edges and all, a true blessing.
Donald Powell is a graduate of Beavercreek High School and a senior double major in Mathematics with a computing focus and English with a creative writing focus. He is currently working on his first novel, a mystery.
