by Ed Rehkopf
friend who was far away
She also knew that prayers didn't have to be said out loud. Silent prayers, the ones you said inside your head, counted just as much. It didn't even matter if the other person didn't talk back to you. Though sometimes, if you were quiet enough, you could hear their answers inside.
So Hannah, clutching the flowers against the buttons of her coat, told Annabelle that she and her mother were doing fine. They missed her a lot and thought of her often. It was hard to believe – at least that's what her mother told her – but she was now four years old and growing "like a weed". She was sorry that Annabelle couldn't be with them, but she could come to visit anytime . . . before next year, maybe . . . when she would go off to nursery school. In any case, she looked forward to seeing her some day and would save some special hugs and kisses for her.
Hannah's mother who had listened with bemused interest to her daughter's out loud, made up prayer, smiled to herself at Hannah's solemn pronunciation of its final "Amen".
This said, Hannah stooped to carefully place the flowers against the polished marble of Annabelle's marker.
Then, without turning her head, Hannah looked at her mother out of the corner of her eye and asked, "Can I play now while you talk to Annabelle?"
Her mother bent down to kiss the top of her head and said, "Just don't go too far. I promise I won't be long."
Hannah's mother watched her run off through the blowing leaves and smiled. Annabelle might not be present to hear, but she was sure the message of Hannah's prayer flew straight to Annabelle's heart.
She closed her eyes and saw the familiar smile on Annabelle's face. It had always been a little crooked, hinting at a smirk, but it illuminated her face with an indwelling radiance, shining through to everything around her. It was a gentle smile, but also one of great strength resting upon the sure knowledge of the heart's resiliency.
Hannah's mother remembered how that smile had gradually healed her sense of abandonment and how year after year it soothed the many hurts of her childhood. She remembered climbing into the wide safety of Annabelle's lap and being drawn into lilac scented bosoms. Once more she felt the warm empathy of enveloping arms and, through bewildered tears, the whispered assurances, barely audible, yet perfectly understood. Once again there was the gentle rocking that transported her away from this world of loss and pain.
For several moments drawn inexorably into timelessness, she was disconnected. The pain and sense of loss that so drugged her days and tormented her nights, drifted slowly away. A lightness settled in, telling her with unspoken clarity that she could not be hurt. These pains were not real. If they can be forgotten for a moment, they could be banished for eternity. Peace reigns naturally in the human heart.
With this quiet realization Hannah's mother slowly opened her eyes and felt a sense of calm flooding her being.
"Annabelle," she thought gratefully, "you've outdone yourself this time."
After leaving the cemetery Hannah and her mother walked together through the park. It was the reward Hannah had been promised for being good. Throughout the park, children in bright clothing raced here and there in play. Their shouts and laughter carried far, though sometimes compressed and distorted by the wind and sometimes drowned out by the scuttling leaves.
Hannah tugged at her mother's arm like a puppy on a leash. First, they went to the playground where Hannah tried the slide and swings and then stood aside to watch some rowdy boys chasing about the gym bars. Then they walked by the lake to watch great mingling crowds of ducks and geese in noisy pursuit of bread crumbs. In the meadow they watched men drawn tight against the pull of high-flying kites. Then they rested while eating popcorn on the great plaza where Hannah delighted at the one-eyed attention of the pigeons.
From across the plaza came an elderly man selling helium balloons. A bright bouquet of colors held his left arm aloft and tugged him along.
As he approached, Hannah's mother laughed. "Looks like you've got your hands full, mister!"
"The wind don't make it easy," he replied with a strained smile.
Then in small, whining voice, he said, "You wouldn't want to lighten an old man's burden, would you?"
Her mother glanced sideways at Hannah with a conspiratorial smile, winked and said, "What do you think, Hannah, could we help him?"
Hannah, beaming with pleasure, picked one out – a red one to match her scarf.
After carefully untangling its string from the others, the old man handed the balloon to Hannah. "Hold tight, sweetie," he said, "so the wind don't blow it away."
In a moment the vendor himself blew away behind his balloons and Hannah's mother suggested they tie the string to Hannah's wrist. But the little girl wouldn't hear of it. She wanted to hold it herself. After a half-hearted confrontation, Hannah's mother capitulated with an arched eyebrow and a disbelieving, "OK". She wasn't about to fight over a balloon.
When they left the park, Hannah and her mother again walked hand in hand. Once more Hannah's right hand rested snugly in her mother's. In the other was the string that towed the balloon. Though they talked of many things, Hannah turned constantly to watch the bobbing red ball trailing behind. Not only did she marvel at the color, as bright and shiny as a cherry Life Saver, but also at its lightness. Somehow it was so light it wouldn't fall down.
Her mother, forgetting her own childish wonder, was amazed that something as simple as a balloon could so capture Hannah's attention.
Waiting at a stoplight to cross the street to the bus stop, Hannah's mind wandered and the balloon got away.
The first her mother knew of it was from the ear-splitting scream at her side. Turning instinctively to fend off some awful danger, she saw only Hannah's tearful face looking up past outstretched hands. The child was so upset she could only blubber incoherently while rapidly stamping her feet. Hannah's mother looked up to see the balloon rising above a line of bare maples by the park.
Hannah's mother reached down and picked up her wailing daughter who was still grasping the air for the lost balloon. When she attempted to quiet Hannah by pulling the little girl's head into her shoulder, Hannah violently threw her body back, kicking wildly and screaming even louder.
"Hannah," her mother shouted above the screams, "that's enough!" The uncharacteristic harshness of her mother's voice caught Hannah's attention. "My God," she continued in a calmer voice, "you're killing me with your feet."
Hannah stopped thrashing about and looked at her mother. Hesitating for a moment, her face was filled with inconsolable grief. Again, she started to cry, but softer now, burying her face in the hollow of her mother's neck.
Hannah's mother carried the child to a bench where they sat down. As she adjusted Hannah on her lap, the little girl looked up again, tears streaming down her cheeks, and pointed to the red dot blowing away high over the park. "My balloon," she cried, the look of hopelessness apparent in her face.
Her mother tried to wipe away the tears. In a calm, reasoning voice, she said, "It's only a balloon, honey. It's not the end of the world."
But Hannah wouldn't hear of it and began crying anew. Her mother drew her close and began a gentle rocking motion.
"Let me tell you a story," she said in soft, measured tones. "It's one that Annabelle told me once. I don't remember why she told me, but I must have lost something."
Hannah began to quiet down. Her mother continued to rock her gently in her lap.
"Annabelle had a story for every occasion. This one's about loss, the everyday kind that made me cry so much when I was your age."
Hannah's mother began retelling the story and her voice shifted unconsciously into the familiar rhythms and intonations of her grandmother's speech. "The most wonderful thing about this world," she began, "is that nothing is ever wasted."
She reached down and picked up a leaf caught against the side of the bench. She held it up for Hannah to see. "Beautiful leaves like this one fall from trees and help mak
e a richer, more fertile soil. Each tree in the forest grows stronger and more beautiful thanks to all the trees that have gone before."
Hannah took the leaf from her mother's hand, examining closely the fine, lace-like veins radiating from its stem. Her mother continued, "The good Lord doesn't waste a particle. What is lost in one place is gained in another. Children are forever losing things. Sometimes they misplace their toys . . ."
She paused and looked down at Hannah. "Do you remember last week when you couldn't find Raggedy Ann? Remember how upset you were? How you cried most of the afternoon until I found her behind the couch?"
Hannah, looking a little sheepish, shook her head.
"Well, you're not the only one, baby. All over the world children are constantly losing things. Most are found again, but every once in a while, something is really lost. Then there are all those times when children spill their drinks. Remember yesterday when you spilled your chocolate milk and it was gone?"
Hannah nodded again.
"But nothing is wasted. Whenever you spill your milk, whenever a little boy or girl drops an ice cream cone on the sidewalk, whenever a toy is lost or a bright red balloon escapes, it doesn't go to waste."
The tears had finally stopped and Hannah's weary attention focused on the soft cadences of her mother's voice.
"Look up in the sky again, Hannah. Do you see your balloon?"
Hannah sat upright to look over the park, but didn't see the red dot. She searched the sky. She had seen it there only a moment ago, but now it was gone.
"Where’d it go?" Hannah asked with genuine concern.
"God wouldn't let it go to waste, so He took it."
"Where?" Hannah's tear stained eyes were wide with curiosity.
"Up to the special part of heaven He saves for little children."
"Where Amelia is?" Hannah asked.
"That's right," her mother nodded. "The things you lose here go to heaven for the children up there. They become presents for them. It makes them very happy."
"So they won't be sad until their mommies and daddies come," Hannah completed the thought.
Her mother agreed. "Whenever you lose something, it's because another little girl needs it to make her happy . . . so instead of crying, you should feel good about helping someone else who is sad and lonely."
Hannah's outlook brightened at this. The thought of cheering another little girl made her feel a lot better.
As she and her mother joined hands to cross the street, Hannah spoke aloud, "Do you think Amelia likes red."
"I'm sure she does," her mother said, "and I'll bet she's just thrilled to have a balloon as big and pretty as that one?"
The light changed and mother and daughter crossed over to the other side. Hannah was quiet for a while, but a little later, as they rode on the bus, Hannah turned to her mother and said in a solemn whisper, "Would you be mad if I lost my scarf?"
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