March 2008

A Late Prayer for Lost Things

The first thing I lost was a kite. This was at Valley Forge. It was 1968. It was springtime and the grass was green.

The kite was blue.

My father said, “Here, hold it.”

I said, “No.”

“Hold the kite!” said my father.

So I took it from him. I felt it pulling; I swear: it was going to pick me up and take me away to who knows where. But everything was so green and the world was so warm, that I didn’t want to leave.

I wanted to stay, so I let go of the kite.

“For the love of Pete!” shouted my father, “what did you do that for?”

* * *

The second thing I lost was a white mouse named Pinky. He died (I don’t remember if it was of old age or a mouse disease) and my brother and I put him in a mason jar and buried him in the front yard, underneath the magnolia tree.

Later, much later, we dug up the jar and there were Pinky’s bones.

“Behold, Pinky,” said my brother; and he held the jar up to the light.

I knew I was supposed to laugh, but I cried instead.

“What are you crying for?” said my brother, “he’s been dead forever.”

“Say a prayer,” I told him.

“No, you say one,” he said.

But I said nothing because I couldn’t think what the words should be.

* * *

Here is a late prayer for those first lost things:

Behold, Pinky!

and the kite at Valley Forge

Behold the ligh

on the jar

and the bones of the mouse

and the blue sky.

Behold my father running, running

trying to catch the kite.

Behold the waiting

and mysterious world

where spring will

most certainly,

somehow,

come

again.