No More Sparrows
by Michael Strickland
The swing set looked as black as my lungs probably did. When I reached out and clutched one of the chains, my hand came away coated in grime. Looking at the charred tree trunks around me, I hoped the soot was from them and not the remains of something — or someone — else.
I grabbed the seat of the swing and gave it a push. The squeak of the chain carried me back across the terrible months to the last time I’d been here. With you.
The world had gone to hell. Or so I’d thought, naively, failing to understand truly how much worse it could get. Economic collapse throwing people on the street in numbers not seen since the Great Depression; a historic hurricane causing more damage than federal disaster budgets could handle; and foreign threats from across both oceans making us wonder if any of it really mattered.
But you were young. All you cared about was how long I would push you on the swing; whether we would stop for ice cream on the way home; when we would see Mommy again. And I, too, wanted to know the answer to that last one.
At the rate things were going, the days of your childhood innocence were numbered. You’d learn about climate change, political corruption and nuclear brinkmanship soon enough. But not yet. So I took a seat on my own swing, and we swung together in the sunshine and talked about the sparrows flitting from tree to tree.
No more sparrows in the trees now. No leaves, for that matter. I pulled off my mask and inhaled a deep breath, trying not to cough and hoping for some familiar scent to take me back to that day. But there was only the acrid smell of the soot that covered everything. That, and an organic odor that left a taste on my tongue like an overripe avocado, but I didn’t want to know what that was from.
I sat on the grit-covered swing. My pants couldn’t get any dirtier, and I didn’t really care anyway. Kicking myself off the ground, I let the motion take me back again.
* * *
“Where is Mommy?” you asked me, your eyes downcast as you dragged your feet in the dirt, your stuffed toy orca gripped tightly in one hand.
“I don’t know, sweetie,” I said. “They don’t want us to know. I know it’s hard, but it keeps Mommy safe for us not to know.”
“Why?”
“Because it means the bad people can’t find her, either.”
“But when will she be back?”
“I wish I knew, sweetie,” I replied, barely a whisper. “I wish I knew.”
* * *
She had been called back to active duty the morning after the Newport News attack. She didn’t know where they were sending her and couldn’t tell us even if she did. She hugged us both so tightly it made me imagine the worst. Which was exactly what came. I would have held the embrace longer if I’d known it would be the last time I’d hold her in my arms.
With each dire headline and escalation, her video calls became fewer and further between. And she looked more worried each time, asking cryptic questions about how much food was in the pantry and was the car gassed up. Then came that final night, the one I will forever want to forget but never be able to, when I got the text message from an unknown number:
Get out of the house. Get as far away from the city as you can. Now. i love you both.
The wind picked up, blowing dust, or something worse, into my eyes. I stuck my feet out and skidded the swing to a stop. The empty swing next to me swayed, whether from the breeze or a memory of you, I don’t know.
You turned to look at me that day, your expression cutting me deeply. No parent should ever have to see such fear in their child’s eyes. “You won’t go, too, will you, Daddy?”
I pushed the memory of my reply down deep, trying to keep it away from recall, but that was as futile as holding a buoy underwater. It popped to the surface, drenching me in shame all over again. My words back to you — “Of course not, sweetheart” — stung with emptiness and dishonesty. I’m sure I meant them at the time, but I uttered them without thought. Without realizing the promise the words held, the promise that I would later break.
And the memory dragged me back to that night. When I read the text message — your mother’s message, because who else could it be from? — I leaped out of bed, frantically dressing while desperate questions fought each other for my attention. How much time do we have? What should I take with us? Where should we go? What’s going to happen? How much danger are we in?
I pulled you from bed and helped you get dressed, too consumed with my own fears to reassure you about yours. Lifting you into my arms, I turned toward the door.
“Flip!” you shouted.
Flip, your orca plushie. I snatched it from the bed and fled from the room with you. Down the stairs. Out the front door. To the car in the driveway. You started crying as I put you in your car seat.
“Where are we going, Daddy?”
I stroked your head, the seconds pulsing away behind my eyes. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy told us we have to go.”
“Mommy!”
“Wait here, okay? Daddy will be right back.” I closed the door and ran back into the house. Throwing open the pantry door, I seized a bag hanging on a hook and began dumping food into it. Then the world turned upside down.
I don’t know how long it took me to push my way out of the smoldering wreckage that had been our home. Five minutes? Five hours? When I finally got clear, I wiped the blood and smoke from my eyes, trying to see clearly enough to spot the car. There it was — halfway down the block. Upside down. Crumpled like an aluminum can. Shrieking your name over and over again, I flew down the street. But before I found you, I knew what I would find.
* * *
I pushed myself out of the swing and back into the present, wiping my grimy hands on the legs of my trousers. I looked around again at the blackened playground. I wish it had happened while we were swinging here, just enjoying a carefree moment in the sun, the outside world forgotten. You wouldn’t have had time to be afraid, and I wouldn’t have to carry the pain and guilt that eroded a little more of me every day. We would have just become ash, part of the playground forever.
Removing my backpack, I set it on the dusty ground and reached inside. The plush of the stuffed toy orca was worn nearly as smooth as a real killer whale’s skin. I hugged it tight against my face, burying my nose into the stuffing, trying to capture one last scent of you. But the bitter smell of char overpowered everything else.
“I’m so sorry.” I thought I’d already cried all the tears I possibly could, but a few more dampened Flip’s stuffing. I hope you forgive me. I hope you forgive all of us. And I hope to see you again one day. Maybe soon.
Heaving out a raspy breath to compose myself, I gently placed Flip on one of the empty swings. The wind immediately gave it a push, and the plushie began swinging. I turned and walked away, knowing that if I didn’t, I’d never be able to leave. Instead, I pictured you behind me, swinging with Flip without a care in the world.
Copyright © 2024 by Michael Strickland
