The Songbird (End)

I moseyed on past the shrine and thankfully so, because when I turned towards the doors, I discovered that the mysterious organ was located on a balcony above the entrance. There was a figure moving about donning a black coat which hid the whole of the body inside of it. I assumed that this person must be the songbird and readied myself to greet the young canary. Her voice was so sweet that it seemed strange for such impassioned feelings to be evoked by someone who had yet to experience life. With that final thought, my son's condition overwhelmed me once more. The bitter vision of his pallid face made my stomach lurch twice. I could feel my face distort into an ugly expression of agony while I was determined to keep my chin set. I'm sure my countenance was horribly grotesque when a sheepish voice asked if I was okay. “Excuse me, Sir. Is there anything I can do for you?” To my right, the questioning person must had squeezed through the two pews so that they stood close to my side. I sighed to regain my composure, but a hand grabbed my arm as a gesture of concern, and the limbs of my body released their tension. I recognized the bottom of the coat to be the same one that had been swishing about on the balcony. In an instant, my head shot up to see the face of the talented singer, but what I saw was far from what I was expecting.

With the hood of her coat pulled back, the singer manifested an aged face with white silky strands hanging loosely at the sides. A network of wrinkles connected sagging areas all over her face, but at the moment, the deepest of them were upon her forehead as she looked anxiously at me. The woman, who must have been in her eighties, measured up to my shoulder at about five foot five give or take, and her voice, the one that I was so mesmerized by, had altered completely. It was no longer as smooth and powerful as before. It was almost weak; fragile in a way, ready to break at any minute, and it shook with the tremor of old age. I could feel her steady herself with my arm. The trembling was unmistakeable. I felt bad for her though I had no reason to. The ironic thing was she felt bad for me, and had every reason for it, but she didn't know that. Then a horrible thing happened. It started down in the pit of my stomach where the rock had formerly been, and worked its way up to my chest and into my throat. I tried my best to choke it down, but I couldn't. I lost control.

There was nothing she could do but join me. I was laughing hysterically at the surprise she had given me. Not only was she far from what I had imagined, but here was a woman who couldn't stand without enduring a corporal earthquake, and she felt pity for me. I suppose in retrospect, it isn't nearly as amusing now as it was at the time, but what could I do? The laughter forced its way out of me, and I had gone crazy with fits of it. I laughed so hard that I began to cry, and the old songbird, the old canary, was laughing with me, though her initial reaction was one of terror. I had scared the poor woman which made me laugh that much harder. I know the people in the pews had turned their heads to stare at me, but the thought didn't phase me one bit. Eventually I calmed down enough to explain to the woman who I was, why I was laughing, which turned out to be a bit of a white lie, and what I was looking for. Upon commending her for her siren's voice, as I saw fit to call it, she blushed like the youthful woman I thought her to be. The years flooded back into her face as an emergent modesty transformed her into a girl.

The woman was more than willing to show me the shrine as well as the square of miracles. She even told me a small historical account of the shrine during our walk. I was very thankful for her guidance, but I was even more thankful for her company. There was something very pleasant about her. She seemed to be very popular among the people as she couldn't get two sentences in without having to greet somebody. I noticed, however, that she was quick with them because she was rather urgent to get me to the shrine. She was a record book for a number of miracles that had been preformed according to the stories she had heard. When she plunged into a story about a tumor I unwittingly stiffened the arm that she was still holding onto. Her speech stopped briefly, and I knew she had felt it. There was no escaping it now, it was surely coming, and oddly enough, I didn't mind. She was a stranger only for the amount of time I didn't know her, so when she asked the question, I answered without hesitation.

“My ten year old son has cancer. The doctors say that my wife and I shouldn't hold our breath. He's in very bad condition as I speak, and now that I've had time to think about it, I don't know if coming here was the right choice.” I trailed off, unable to force words from my mouth. Her hand tightened around my arm and I heard her catch her breath. Her voice changed again. It was softer now, almost like she was singing to me.

“When someone's life has been turned upside down, there is no thinking straight. I know that for a fact. I've lived a long life and there's been plenty of deaths throughout it. I don't mean to compare my hardships with yours because nothing seems to be as bitter as losing a child, but when my husband passed away, there was no consoling me. I lied in bed for months, praying that tomorrow would never come, but it always did. It wasn't right for me to be sulking, you see? We were married for fifty-two years and what do you do when a part of you suddenly disappears? I was more used to him than I was the rain. And more fond of him, too.” She giggled quietly to herself. It was some moments before she continued. “Enda's death could have been my ending as well. I stopped eating all together. I just didn't live anymore. But what good would that do? The world was already suffering from the loss of a great man; God knows I suffered the most.” Again she paused. She had turned her head away from me. “The square I am taking you to never entered my head, but I wish it had. I was so drowned in my sorrows during his dark days, that my mind didn't function. I never left his bed. I know as a Catholic, I should be happy for where he is now, and of course I am, but it doesn't ease pain that comes with the reality of his absence. If God was calling him, who was I to make him stay?”

The last words were said in a self-reproachful tone. I understood what she meant, but she also understood the difficulty of letting loved ones go. I didn't know how to respond to her personal story, so I nodded my head. She smiled at me and pulled me forward, but I had to hold my ground. Something just wouldn't work itself out in my head. “My son is only ten. He's far too young. Why would God want to take him before he's experienced anything in life? What would be the point of existence for only ten years? It's only a tease to let you smell the wine then not let you taste it.” I stopped before the building rage got the better of me. None of this was her fault, but for some reason it was beginning to feel that way. I could see the worrisome look on her face as she sensed the fire burning in me, but it didn't prevent her from calming my anger.

“I don't know the answer to that, of course. But you talk as if he is already gone. I am full of hope that your son will live, and it's vital that you feel that way, too. Even if your son doesn't make it, God forgive me for saying that, you have to think of the beautiful things about him. Ten years of age is a long time, despite what you say. I don't see myself here in tens years time, but your son, he knows you, he loves you, and you have ten years of memories with him. And with a Father who is willing to fly all the way to tiny Knock village to touch a square on a building for the sake of a miracle, well, he is a very lucky boy. It sounds to me like you have plenty of faith in God. Now is the ultimate test. We can only do so much as humans, but you have to leave the situation in His hands. If you don't, then in whose hands do you leave it?”

I had no answer to her last question. She insisted that we resume our walk to the shrine, and I let her lead me to it. I thought of how an atheist would respond to that question, and in whose hands could they leave such a situation except in the hands of doctors? Humans. Humans are not miracle workers; they're only lucky. If my son's death did come prematurely, then the atheist outlook would be rather bleak. Before my son fell ill, my friend Billy always tried to convince me that God was only a fairy tale ending to our short-lived life, but now that cancer has come into the picture, he says nothing about it. I appreciate his silence. The last thing I would want to hear is that my son's body is going to stop working for no reason, and I am going to bury him in the ground where it 's going to rot. No, there was something too precious about life that brought God into the picture for me. There was something about the connection I have with my son, the undying love I have for him, the drive I have to keep him alive. Who or what planted these intense feelings within me? For some reason I can't ascribe it to my ape ancestors.

“Ok, a stór, here it is. I'm truly sorry that I must rush off now. I need to do my praying myself, you see, that the shrine is right here. I'm going to go in before the rain begins.” She pointed up at the sky, and for a few minutes, her face turned an ashen gray. It seemed that even an eighty year old Irish woman couldn't get used to the rain. She bundled herself a little tighter in her coat, and scurried off into the building. I was left outside to deal with the infamous square myself. What was I suppose to do or say? I remembered the bit about touching it and blessing myself, but was I suppose to pray? Was I suppose to go into the shrine and kneel while saying a number of Our Fathers or Hail Mary's? Suddenly I was utterly upset that I hadn't asked her what the tradition was. I didn't want to ruin my son's chances for life by saying the wrong thing or omitting a specific prayer. In a moment of desperation, I leaned with both hands on the square, rested my head above it, and began to whisper as many prayers as I could remember. I don't know how long I was there. My eyes were shut so tightly that I didn't know the old woman had come back outside from the shrine. When the disquieted spirit inside of me relented, I opened my eyes and pushed myself off the wall. My mind was so exhausted that the woman's voice barely penetrated through me.

“That should do it, a stór. Arah, if there is no miracle, then God must have a great purpose for your son. I have prayed for you and yours anyway. Prayers can go a long way. And I've also retrieved some of this for you.” She held out a bottle of holy water. I took it gratefully, but I was too tired to say thank you. “Every little bit helps. I wish you the best.” With a final pat on my back, she limped past me. I had only known the songbird for nearly two hours, and I couldn't help but feel that she was one of the most important and wonderful people I would ever meet in my lifetime. I turned to watch her go. Something about the increasing distance between us made me feel vulnerable, but even as I sat on the plane and eventually walked back into my own home, I felt as if her hand had never let go of my arm. My wife and I decided to call upon the Father of her church to deliver the proper words and motions for blessing our son with the holy water. He stood after doing the honors, and pressed my wife's hand. That small gesture was enough to knock the breath out of me.

My son had become so weak that he couldn't even open his eyes. All color was gone from his face. I found it hard to sleep for days on end as he didn't seem to be improving in the least. I felt utterly helpless. There were some days where walking into his room proved harder than trying to convince him everything would be okay. My wife didn't even sleep in our room anymore; instead she slept beside our son in case his last breath was taken. She wouldn't be able to bare it if he had slipped away without her knowing. It wasn't until a few months after my trip that I heard a crash in his room. My wife was in a panic and must have knocked something down, which could only mean one rotten thing. At that moment, all hope left me, and any life that clung to it was gone forever. He must have passed. My wife must be fighting the reality of his death. Our son's door slammed against the wall, and seconds later, ours was flung open. The crazed look in my wife's eyes sent me in a panic myself. I knew it would be bad, but I didn't think she would have reacted this way. She opened and shut her mouth like a fish, then tears swelled in her eyes, and she smiled through them.

“He's sitting up!” She screamed it at the top of her lungs and jumped on top of me as if she were fifteen years younger. “He said good morning.” I had to see it to believe it. I ran into my son's room, full of wild hope. My wife was right behind me, using my shoulder as a support to peer over my head. Two bright blue eyes stopped me dead in my tracks. They were sunken with dark circles underneath, but they were open and wrinkled with a laughing smile. He couldn't lift his arms as I hugged him to me because of the confounded weakness that still handicapped his body, but I could hear his heartbeat when I pressed my head to his chest. My wife was behind me kneeling on the ground, thanking the Lord for his mercy. I pulled away to take a look at my beautiful, smiling, ten year old son, and the sight of the ruddy hue in his cheeks was enough to strain my own with tears. 


© Mikal Minarich