Last Friday was a gorgeous day in a string of gorgeous days. Warm and sunny, with an almost imperceptible breeze rustling the leaves. The petals on the dogwoods are starting to fall, which oddly look like snow and make me realize how wonderful New England weather is.
I picked S up at camp at 3:30. He is already tan, freckled, and blond. His little boy beauty nearly knocks me over. I am trying to enjoy these summer days, to relish in the tiny moments of peace, to stop fretting about the job search. To relax and just be.
His backpack and his knees were filthy from kickball and hiking. He tumbled into the car, buckled his seatbelt while chugging warm water out of his purple plastic bottle and then asked, like he does so often, “What are we going to do when we get home?”
I can’t remember now whether I answered him or whether it was his idea, but before we got home it was decided that we would ride our bikes downtown to get ice cream. He got a new bike this spring, a seven-speeder, and we haven’t had a chance to ride it much. And we haven’t let him ride it downtown yet, because the traffic is often heavy and the roads are a little narrow. And I worry too much.
After pulling our bikes out of the basement, I grabbed the helmets, stuck my key into my wallet, pocketed my phone, took several deep breaths, and we were off.
He rode in front of me, a little wobbly, but with increasing confidence. He even stood up a few times. We walked our bikes through the big intersection, and when we got to the ice cream place we parked them outside by the window before going in.
We ate our sundaes at a little round bistro table on the sidewalk. I didn’t make him wash off his chocolate mustache before we headed back home. We went a different way, still choosing to walk our bikes through the busy spots, but taking a shortcut through a parking lot.
The parking lot is next to a municipal building and an auditorium, and as we pedaled through, scores of young girls in bright costumes were filing into their recital. The scene reminded me of my niece’s recital last week, and then I remembered my post from that weekend. I wrote an essay that came out of me in a rush as I tried to understand the catastrophic shooting in Orlando. I wrote it as a way to work through what I couldn’t understand. I still don’t understand, but a few people have reached out to me after reading it and said they felt that I had written a message about hope. I hadn’t intended it to be hopeful, but it felt good to give that to a few readers who were also feeling uncertain.
I know I used the word “hope” in the essay, but I wasn’t really feeling it when I wrote it. Hopeless is how I felt. Kind of empty and defeated. Angry. I used the word “angry” far more times than I used “hope.” No one remarked about that. I would like to think that means more people are drawn to hope than to anger.
Once we bobbed and weaved through the dancers and their families we stopped. We had one more major road to cross before we were home free. I patted down my pockets to find my phone and check the time, to get my key out of my wallet. I had my phone. But not my wallet.
My fingers went a little numb. My ears burned from more than just the sun. My heart pounded so loudly I couldn’t think for a moment.
“What’s wrong mom?”
“I lost my wallet. It’s not in my pocket.”
I knew I had to be calm, so I whispered the words “fuck” and “shit” instead of yelling them. We couldn’t just go home and make a few calls because I had stuck my key in my wallet. I couldn’t buy us water and time at a restaurant or café because I had no money.
I had to stay calm and make a plan. I didn’t want to upset my son, but I also needed him to know that this was important and I needed his help.
“Ok bubs. Here’s the plan. We’ll bring the bikes home and then we’ll walk back and retrace our steps. I need your help. Keep your eyes peeled and remember where we were.”
We followed our path all the way back to the ice cream shop. Nothing. We stopped into stores. Nothing. I could tell S was starting to worry; he was muttering about this being “the worst day ever.”
At the crosswalk I held his hand and thanked him. I explained that although this certainly wasn’t the best way to wrap up our day, it was really no big deal. I would cancel the credit cards, get a new license, and we would change the lock on the backdoor. What truly matters is that we are happy. We are healthy. We have bellies full of hot fudge. We are very lucky people.
“Let’s go to the train station and wait for Matt.”
My husband had left work early and it was almost time for his train to get in. Once he arrived we could get into the house. S’s dad was taking him for the night. Then my husband and I could deal with the credit cards and locks together.
I sent Matt a text to let him know what had happened.
He reminded me that he didn’t have a key, either. He had left them with me.
I called my mother-in-law to meet us with her spare key. I told S we had to walk back home and wait for her to unlock the door, and then we could go inside and have huge glasses of water and relax on the couch. He hadn’t complained about the heat or being thirsty. He nodded and slipped his hand in mine. I repeated to him that this really isn’t a major catastrophe. I reminded him that in the big picture, this is only a drop in the bucket. He stayed quiet. I stopped talking. We walked the nine minutes home hand in hand.
Maybe I was surprised by people’s reactions to my Pulse post because the word “hope” sometimes connects me, uncomfortably, to religion. When I hear that word, I see stiff felt banners with white doves and dark stained glass windows of saints proclaiming miracles for those who have hope and faith.
I am agnostic. I haven’t attended or believed in church in twenty years, and somewhere along the way I even started to avoid the vocabulary. But I haven’t let go of some of the traditions. There are little stones of my Catholic upbringing rolling around in my shoes and I can feel them when I’m worried. When I realized my wallet had dropped out of my pocket, after I whispered four-letter words, I prayed to St. Anthony. A vestigial reflex from my childhood.
When we got home, S and I clamored up the two steps of our front porch, sweaty, frustrated, and defeated. And there it was. Looking a little limp, the gray zipper closed, the patterned fabric dirty and frayed. My wallet, tossed up on our doorstep by some honest stranger.
We were both wide-eyed. I picked it up. It was hot from being in the sun. My credit cards were in there. My license. Three wet, wrinkly dollar bills. Wadded up receipts. Our house key.
Some people say “lucky” and others say “blessed.” Some look for hope and faith, others for charms and signs. One person’s “Do unto others” is another person’s Karma.
What matters is kindness.