Idols

It’s warm and welcoming outside. He’s free from burdensome coats and the restricting cold of winter. The boy is happy, thriving. He’s had rough times, stubbed toes, scrapped knees, bumped head. I’m sure his mother remembers each well, she heard his cries. In his desperation and pain he called on her name and she was there, close, eager to heal. She knew that they were minor scares, but to him they were the epitome of excruciating. They were all he knew, and even though his mother knew better it never lessened her love for him, it never slowed her steps to him, it never kept her from providing for him.

But at this moment all memories of his mother and his injuries are far from his mind. The wind blows lightly and the little boy is free to roam. He gets his hands on the bubbles his mom had purchased for him to enjoy. He sticks in the wand, fascinated the film of flourescent soap that coats it. His mother says, “Blow hard.” She guides him.

His shock is immediate. Joy moves over his face, pride is in his smile and youthful excitement fills his giggles. His fascination grows to worship as the bubble lifted high, high, higher. He wants it. He wants to touch and behold it. His hands reach for his newly created idol, perfectly formed with its multi-colored shine.

He reaches and reaches, crouching on his knees, the need to grasp it overwhelming him, until, finally, he does. He grazes it with his small naive fingers. He has achieved his goal. then—–

POP. It is gone.

He is shocked, he is hurt, he is confused. He feels it in his bones, all the way to his core. His mother begins calling his name, but instead of turning his head to the one who comforts him, he turns his back, sticks the wand in and blows hard, creating yet another bubble, even though now knowing it wouldn’t last.

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~ by Katie Brewer on March 29, 2011.