Damian's Disappearance

 

Damian's Disappearance

 After weeks of insistent begging, my dad finally decided to fix a leak in the bathtub. Thank God because my two-and-a-half-year-old son Damian and I love to bathe and play in it as often as possible. It's the most relaxing moment of my day.

 

 Raising even just one child is more challenging than it seems. Being a responsible mother means you cannot be selfish. Of course, I enjoy it immensely, but it's exhausting. My reward is his love, and I feel well rewarded. I have to alternate a little exasperation with the constant attention he requires and the incredible joy he brings to my life, but definitely, good times abound. 

 

 To wake up every morning and see his serene face beside mine indicates another glorious day. Then at night, when he finally falls asleep. I feel blessed. I wish the next one hundred years to be exactly like this.

 

 My son is the most precious thing in the universe. Most mothers in the world would make this claim, but I know I'm the only one who's right. That's it—no more arguments allowed in this matter.

 

 When we finish bathing and playing, I return to reality after seeing the mess we can make in just one hour. I didn't put a diaper on Damian yet. I know he peed at least three times in the tub. I let him roam around the room naked. I know he feels free and happy. He runs and jumps, sings, and dances. He jumps to the bed, jumps back down, goes under it, appears on the other side, and keeps running around. 

 

 Then he stops and asks, "What's that?" pointing to the middle of my body. "My belly button," I respond, then he ignores me again. Then, when he notices the window's shadow on the carpeted floor, he asks again, "What's that?" I explain to him about the sun, the window, and the shadow.

 

 When the doorbell rings, I remember about a dozen things I must do. I dress and go downstairs to find a parcel from the UPS man beside my door. It's a book I ordered, "Shadows on the Floor" What a coincidence. I'll start reading it tonight.

 

 In the kitchen, I start preparing Damian's breakfast and coffee for me. I suddenly think about how quiet it is upstairs, but I don't become worried because I always drain the tub while I'm still in it. Damian is not wearing a diaper, and I don't want to imagine a mess on the carpet, but I still do. I go back upstairs expecting to find him still jumping on the bed, but the room is awfully quiet, and I don't see him on the bed, floor, bathroom, or anywhere. I look for him in the closet, under the bed, but nothing. Then I start calling him, "Damian, where are you?" in a playful manner.

 

 Like all kids, he loves to play hide and seek, but only if I suggest it. Well, maybe not anymore.

 

 Upstairs we have four bedrooms and another bathroom. I start tiptoeing into the first bedroom, "Damian, where are you?" After I looked into the last bedroom, I began to panic. Now the game is over, and I get serious. I start screaming and looking faster and more thoroughly. I return to the main bedroom, bathroom, closet, and the rest of the rooms. Then I ran downstairs and looked for him everywhere, in every room and corner.

 

 Then I panic and begin to scream louder as I go outside. Then when I saw the UPS brown truck parked in the corner, I ran to it to look inside. As I come out of the vehicle, the driver appears and says, "Hey lady, what the hell . . . ?"

 

 "I can't find my son anywhere, you just delivered a parcel to my house, and I thought . . . just call the cops, please," I say while running back to my house.

 

 After I called 911, I inspected the whole house and the backyard again. I checked the ditch next to my neighbor's fence too. My house is on a slopping hill, and I was always afraid of this ditch, but Damian's not here either. What's happening, God? Where is he? He can't disappear just like that. This is not possible. Why Damian? We didn't do anything wrong to anybody. We don't deserve this. Come on, God! Give him back to me!

 

 All the neighborhood is on alert now. I manage to call my husband, and he's on his way home now. Two police officers show up and place an Amber Alert. However, I cannot give them a logical explanation for my son's disappearance. My husband arrives. Oh God, I want to die. After long hours of crying and inconsolable pain, somebody gives me a couple of pills, and things calm down. The night appears to last only a few seconds. In the morning, the sun only reminds me that it wasn't a dream.

 

  I miss my son, the absence of his little face, his lovely smile. My heart breaks again and again. This is unbearable. My whole life feels empty.

 

 I drag my feet down to the kitchen. My husband's there, and he looks like I feel. "Coffee's ready," he says as he hugs and kisses me. I think my husband is not enough, and I regret my thoughts. I need my baby. He is the main reason for my existence. I kiss my husband again and regret my thoughts again.

 

 Then we hear some little steps coming from the stairs, and an angel shows up.

 

 "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Daddy!"

 

 It is Damian! He's naked, just like yesterday morning when he disappeared! God exists!

 

 "Where were you, baby?" I ask him ten times in a row, after I kiss him ten times in a row, with my eyes full of joyful tears.

 

 "Little sister, little sister, Katana," He replies barely intelligibly, then he runs upstairs, and we run behind him. Then he shows us the window's shadow on the floor and points at it with his little finger. He says, "little sister there, little sister there!"

 

 A week later, I found out I was pregnant after we got the news it was a girl. We already picked the name for her, Katana.

 

 The room looks darker now. I called my dad and asked him to remove and cover the window forever with drywall. I like it that way.

 

 The following day, Damian asked, "Mommy, Mommy, where's my window? I want to see my sister," he said, pointing to the floor with his little finger.

 

 "Your little sister is here," I said, rubbing my tummy.

 

 

 

 EDMUNDO BARRAZA

 Visalia, CA. 04-19-2012

 http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com/