Hello, moon. Caught you smiling just a bit ago. Made me smile a bit, as well. I know what you’re thinking. That I’m about to ask you, once again, if you’ve seen my son since the last time we spoke. I know it’s a stupid notion. But notions are about all I’ve got right now. I don’t expect I’ll run out.
You’ve always appeared to me to be the brightest one up there. The one who would know things. Who sees things. Sorry if I’m being presumptuous, but it is quite a compliment. Wish someone would think the same of me. Then I wouldn’t have to go about chatting up a floating orb shining from the heavens. I’d have all the damn answers myself. As it is, I don’t. I’m stupefied as ever by all things concerning life and death.
I must say, though, you’ve always been a good listener. I would have avoided me like a plague if I saw me coming with another question concerning things that go on after we leave here. It’s just that you seemed the perfect one to approach. Lighting up the night the way you do. A beacon of sorts. A doorman to the stars. Ushering in the mystified dearly-departed with that whimsical smile of yours. I can almost hear you saying, ‘Come on, all you that have passed. Don’t be alarmed. Come into my light and all will be well. Right this way. Don’t crowd each other. All are welcome. No one will be turned away. Room for all!’
Something like that.
It’s been four years now since we lost our son. I can go forty four more and still figure to be bending your ear through every one of them.
When I was a kid I was told I could make a wish upon a star. But I always figured the odds were against getting any wish granted from such a limitless array of shiny night sparklers. Way too many for my comfort. Quick as a blink you could easily lose sight of a chosen star. And there goes your wish. Poof. Lost in space.
Give me a big old flashy moon, anytime. You, moon, have always had my back. If I was going to get any wish granted it would be from you. My personal night watchman through many a carefree youthful stumble home. And though you’ve never granted me all my wishes, you’ve done enough to give me hope for more in the future.
I come to you now because it’s that dreaded time of the year: the month of November. Specifically Thanksgiving week. Hell week, as I’ve come to think of it. November 24th to be precise.
My son Sam died on Monday. November 24th, 2014.
Shortly before he died, we were ushered into the operating room, my wife, his fiancé and me. We sang him a song as the doctor’s hovered nearby waiting for his heart to stop beating so they could harvest his organs. How I now hate that damn word. Harvest. Much too pleasant a word for what they were about to do. But do it they must. Sam was an organ donor. If he had anything useful left, he wanted someone to have it. As it turned out his kidneys would go on to help save the lives of two people. One man and one woman. I’ve never met them and don’t wish to. I’d hate to meet someone only find out they weren’t respectful of the new chance they’d been given.
November 24 is coming tomorrow, and still there’s no peace as far our hearts and minds are concerned. It may as well have happened this morning.
So, dear moon, this time around I won’t bug you with specifics about my son’s whereabouts. I will simply make one wish and hope that you'll give it some consideration.
The wish? That when it’s our time to die, you are there to take us in and guide us to our son.
I’ll come looking for you tomorrow, and if you’re still smiling that big smile of yours I’ll figure I’ve got a lock on that wish. Good night, and remember: Big smile.
Image courtesy of wiki commons: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Moon