“Dad, can I wash this shirt to wear tomorrow?” Owen asked me last night after getting home late from Audrey’s game.
It’s just one shirt, and my inclination is “no,” but I’m learning better not to judge and respond on impulse but to listen and pay attention to better discern and understand the reason “why.”
It’s a navy blue shirt with white stars and stripes of red, white, and blue.
Last night after Audrey’s game we had dinner with my folks at our favorite Mexican place in town.
On the televisions, a special played of 9/11 and baseball of that year.
We watched images of the second plane striking the Twin Towers. We saw an open field and investigation of debris where others forced a plane to crash before striking of its target. We saw the towers collapse and all of Manhattan engulfed in smoke and dust. We shared stories of watching people jump and fall from the tops of the towers, choosing death in that way than to be burned alive.
I don’t know if Owen’d ever seen the images or heard the story and truths of what happened that day.
I know I’d never shown nor told. Eleven years old—some ways of the world can wait but are not hidden from us forever.
As we talked and the images played, he didn’t say much. He watched. He listened, and when he got home, he went to his laundry and drew a navy shirt out of his hamper: stars and stripes; red, white, and blue.
“Dad, can I wash this shirt to wear tomorrow?”
It is washed, cleaned, and ready.
Eyes—and heart—of a child: may we contemplate and reflect as well on little signs and ways to show we have not forgotten and that love for country—and one another—still remain.