Flakes
This week I have been waking up with bright sunlight hitting my face just a few minutes before the alarm signals the start of the day. During these quiet minutes I stare at the ceiling and think about the things I need to do, the things I didn't do, and the things I'm actively avoiding. Today it was Ayumi's vet visit, client work deadlines, and income tax filing. Nothing egregiously difficult, but all requiring several hours of dedicated time.
Just as with every morning, I did this until the phone told me it was time to move and I started the morning routine of opening windows, making my bed, and getting dressed. I then walked into my son's room to brighten it up. I folded his blanket over to reveal the sheets underneath, fluffed the pillows, re-arranged the stuffed animals, and opened his windows. But, while doing this, something on his desk caught my eye; dark flakes.
I looked at the ceiling to see if something might have fallen, but it was bare as it's always been. The air conditioner has not been used all winter, so it would not have been dust. On his desk is just a handful of photos, a lamp, and a stuffed animal from the 2010 Winter Olympics. Where did the flake come from?
On closer inspection, there was not a single flake, but several dozen that had started to accumulate on his chair and surrounding floor. But this would mean that the source of the flakes was from either the bookshelf in front of the windows ... or the wrapped gift that has been sitting on his chair for almost four years.
Gently touching the top of the wrapping paper, the hypothesis turned out to be correct. Years of sitting in a stagnant room, where sunlight slowly slides from west to east through the four large windows, and where the breeze provides the only engine of motion, has resulted in a desiccated package waiting for someone who will probably never return.
This coming April will mark four years since the family disintegrated. It feels like a lifetime ago. So much has happened. So little was shared.
In my son's room are books he'll never read. Toys he'll never play with. Fresh sheets that are washed and changed every month, but never slept in. His lamp, a glowing orb in the shape of the moon that hovers on a magnetic field, is something he'll never watch spin. Aside from the bed frame and mattress, he has never seen anything that waits for him in a room that was designed specifically for him in a house that was built as a result of his birth.
Seeing the flakes of the wrapping paper surrounding the undeliverable gift, I wondered if I'm just being stupid. Hoping against hope that, one day, there may be communication in the future. But, even if there were, what value would the gifts serve? He will likely be too old to want them. Too old to play with them. Too old to laugh with glee while tearing the paper to see what awaits inside.
I do a lot of stupid things. Perhaps this is just more evidence of that.
For the moment, his gifts continue to wait for him. Rain or shine. Summer or winter. I will continue to open the windows to air out the space. I will continue to keep his bed tidy and ready. I will continue to add more things to his room as birthdays, Christmases, and milestones pass. But I wonder if it's time to admit that he will likely never see any of it.