by Shairi Engle
“Can we keep it?” my eight year old asked, using his giant blue eyes persuasively. My son Tristin, my older brother, and I had just stumbled upon a baby bird flailing about on the ground. “Go ahead, T, pick it up,” suggested my brother and my mind was immediately flooded with countless memories of wild animals my brother and I had ‘rescued’ as children.
As a look of concern spread across Tristin’s face I recalled the past year. It had been difficult on my son since we had parted ways after living in Japan for almost four years. He moved to live with his father in Florida while I relocated back to California. Long before the big move I was busy with the daily struggle of mastering single-motherhood and had a constant feeling of guilt over my son’s well-being. Tristin was spending the summer with me in San Diego and would return to Florida for a new school year in just a few short weeks.
Both nostalgia and the desire to bring Tristin happiness prompted me to run into the house and locate a box for the bird. This decision preceded one of the most significant days of my life as a mother, a day when I realized and truly understood that I cannot protect my child from the cold truths of our world and that I will not always be able to ‘make it all better’.
As soon as the shoebox had been produced Tristin put all his energy into caring for his baby bird. Wanting his bird to be comfortable, he rummaged through his clothing to find his brand new socks. The socks I had just bought for his upcoming school year. He carefully put as many socks as he could fit around the bird. After a lengthy debate over the sex of the bird, Tristin decided to name it Tom.
Hour after hour he looked and cared after Tom. He asked me to take a picture of Tom, but I offhandedly told him we would take it later. When it was time for dinner Tristin refused to leave his baby bird. Instead, I sat with him and listened as he told me how great it was to have a bird as a pet and how great it was going to be when Tom finally flew. Tristin grew a little sad at this point and said, “I hope Tom always comes back to me, I don’t want to lose him.”
I realized that I should prepare Tristin for the worst and tried to gently explain to him what might happen, what might go wrong, with Tom. He cried at the thought of having Tom die which renewed my determination to keep my child happy. I am a person that believes almost anything can be thought through and solved. This is the age of Google, afterall. So I jumped on the Internet and assisted Tristin as best I could in the care of little Tom.
Despite our best efforts I was concerned of the outcome. I debated and debated, thinking maybe it would be best if I took the bird in the middle of the night and then lie to Tristin, telling him I saw Tom fly away. I also considered taking the bird to an animal shelter. In the end I did nothing. Much like I was vaguely aware that I was an imperfect mother capable of letting my son down, Tristin was now conscious of how he could fail Tom. Our ambiguous awareness of these impending heartaches would soon become a clear and intense realization.
One morning, as I rubbed sleep out of my eyes, I listened to the familiar sound of Tristin opening the front door to check on Tom. I heard a loud cry, a shriek that held notes of pain I wish only adults uttered. I knew what had happened. Jumping out of bed, I rushed out to solve yet another dilemma and make my son smile again as quickly as possible. Mommy was going to go make it all better. That’s what we are here for, right?
Holding my son as tight as I could I tried to console him, “I’m so sorry Tristin.” I glanced at what remained of my son’s baby bird. Ants had already begun feeding off Tom and he was barely recognizable. My eyes widened in horror realizing that my baby boy had just looked at this raw cruelty alone and I was not there first. The creeping feeling of failing my son was arising in me. I wasn’t ready for it. Nor was I prepared for the depth of Tristin’s love of Tom, the numerous emotions he felt, and how this event was forcing him to grasp the cruelty of life. Tristin pulled away, looked into my eyes, and asked, with tears streaming down his face, “Why didn’t you take a picture?! How am I supposed to remember him now, with ants all over him?! Why did he have to die? Why?!” His voice cracked with this last question and his eyes pleaded with me while I desperately searched for words of comfort.
I thought in my head: This is it, Shairi. You’ve let your son down—again. Why didn’t you take a picture! Why didn’t you keep that bird alive! You are his mother; you should know what to say. Come on, do not let him suffer like this! Nothing came.
“I hate God!” he shouted angrily and I grew even more bewildered; I had no idea Tristin was a religious man. Still, no wisdom came to lessen Tristin’s pain, only silence. Faced with guilt and regret, I gave up trying to find words. I realized I had nothing to offer him and no way to make his pain go away. Tears began to fall down my face as I reached for my child. Without a scheme to solve this, I put my meager arms around him while he went through a series of emotions. My heart broke as I empathized with my son and all I could give him was my presence. I think in that moment I felt as alone and hopeless as he did.
We found a beautiful spot behind the house next to a canyon for Tom’s grave. Tristin, who was sockless, stood beside me as we buried Tom inside of the shoebox along with all the socks Tristin never wore. He lovingly wrote ‘R.I.P. Tom’ on an old clay tile for a tombstone and we placed an abundance of flowers around it.
Years later, both Tristin and I still feel overwhelmingly sad when we recall this day, but for different reasons. In the aftermath, I realize I had a hand in his heartache and I couldn’t shield him from my mistakes or this harsh world. Against my loving intentions I bring difficulty to Tristin and, sadly, at times I can only offer him my arms.
Our world is far from perfect and, despite my best efforts, my son will experience the many miseries of life. On the same note I believe, maybe as my only solace, that he will be able to cherish the joys of this world. In the end, this was a day when I could only give him my unending love and another batch of brand new socks. All I can do is hope that was enough.