THE
PUDDLE
By Walt
Stone
November
4, 1985 (Herald Journal)
Jonathan, my
5-year-old son, jumped on his “Big Wheels” back in the corner of the
garage. The crunch of the gravel
embedded in the plastic wheels against the concrete floor sent shivers up my
spine and echoed in the enclosed garage.
He sailed past me up the incline of the driveway. I had left my glasses on the chest in the
bedroom and squinted to see the outline of his golden-brown hair contrasted
against the auburn leaves on the sidewalk.
The fallen leaves
had been drenched by a week of cold rains and instead of their usual crackle,
they felt mushy under my feet as I hurried to catch up with the brown and black
blur that was now 50 feet ahead of me.
“Wait up” I
shouted, but it was no use. Jonathan
didn’t even slow down until he reached the first intersection.
Dark clouds mourned
the passing of fall. As I looked upward,
I wondered if it would rain again. The recent rains had torn all the remaining
leaves from the maple trees along our street.
The gutters were flowing with muddy water, discarded bits of litter and
drowning leaves. My spirits were as gray
as the day.
When I was in this
mood nothing was worthwhile or meaningful.
Thoughts were either too dull to present any meaning or so rapid and
intense, they fused into a meaningless mumbo-jumbo.
I had decided to go
with Jonathan that day because I “should,” not because I wanted to. I hated myself for feeling that way.
“Hurry up, Dad,”
Jonathan pedaled across the road without saying anything. I was silent too. We crossed the first street, then turned and
crossed a second. The playground was
deserted except for a solitary basketball player who was practicing his slam
dunks on the 8-foot basket.
Jonathan shot
across the playground heading straight for a big puddle of water. “Jonathan!” He stopped inches short of the
water and sat quietly peering at the puddle.
I drew in a long, deep breath and blew it out.
Slowly, I walked to
the edge of the puddle. Jonathan was
still studying its contents. It had
formed in a low spot in the pavement.
The water was clear but the bottom was covered with mud, rotten leaves,
paper and other debris.
“Look, Dad,”
Jonathan exclaimed, “I can see the sky!”
I moved closer. It was no different than it had been before: junk trapped
in mud. I looked back into his radiant
face and knew it was me trapped in the mud.
Jonathan saw higher things. His
eyes weren’t trained to see garbage.
“Hey, Dad, I can
see me, and look, I can see you too!”
Sure enough, there in the puddle, our two faces were framed. Overhead, the clouds were beginning to break
up. Sunlight sparkled on the edges of
the puddle.
Spontaneously,
Jonathan raced through the puddle, splashing water in silver wings over my
sneakers. I didn’t need my glasses to know
there was a smile on his face. Suddenly,
I felt like smiling too.
