My vantage point was from the backseat of an Uber:
Ahead, a tiny 8 in. by 2 in. frame of Joey’s “mind.” This rearview mirror captured only the driver’s forehead—one that looked like my son’s. The missing detail was the faint scar Joey earned while trying to walk before he could talk. The trip to the emergency room that day included our not-yet-toddler getting stitches while in a straitjacket. I can hear his cry and see his furrowed brow as if it were yesterday.
From the literal beginning to the literal end—a sweet newborn lying next to me in a hospital bed, me touching his tiny, flawless face. And thirty-six years later—an unthinkable moment. Did he feel my touch the last time, when my finger gently traced his scar?
Now I think maybe.
Why do I think that’s possible?
Six months ago, I had a dream in which Joey appeared before me. I reached out and touched his face with both hands, as I had so many times.
I woke with my heart thumping. My eyes were wet. My hands were electrified. I tried to take notes on what had just happened.
In the dream, I rested both hands on his cheeks and felt the softness of his trimmed beard. I moved my hand to his forehead and ran my finger over the scar from the tumble he took while trying to walk at 9 ½ months old. I ran my fingers through his locks.
We held each other as I spoke the clarifying words I had longed to say.
Joey, smiling, “I know, mama, I know.”
And then, somehow in unison:
“I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much, I love you so much…”
Gently jolted awake, palms open, I stared at my hands.
I could still feel the very real texture of my son’s face, his literal presence on my skin.
My hands felt as if a Joey current were flowing through them, and as I write this, although it is less intense, I can still feel the warm, humming electricity.
I got another chance I didn’t think I’d have.
It was a surprise gift unlike any other.
And now I struggle to find a decent sentence to convey this experience. It’s impossible to explain the “impossible.”
Today, my unscarred newborn would be forty.
The tears came as I stood in the grocery aisle, looking for the 4 and 0 candles for his cake.
But we’ll light them today and sing him a song.
“…Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold, and it’s a broken hallelujah.”
I think it’s possible he can feel my touch even now.
Maybe you doubt. Maybe it’s too mystical, too woo-woo. That’s okay.
Annie Dillard wrote, “Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery…”
You might find my title inaccurate because an “ode” is technically a poem of praise or celebration.
And this might not sound like that.
But broken hallelujahs do.
Messy odes that don’t quite fit within a frame.
Joey’s current still flows.
My palms are open.
In praise, in acceptance, in awe.
Still, the simultaneous ache may always remain within and beyond the lines of my poetry, prose, and chicken-scratch.
Because of my evidence, however, I have reason to hope for another chance and, yes, to celebrate.
My broken hallelujah birthday ode is what I owed to Joey.
(black and white photo credited to Chloe Sherman-Pepe)