Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

The old T-shirt I was wearing when the phone rang was not one I would choose to wear in public. I remember dropping to my knees to look under the couch---hunting for the other mock-Birkenstock sandal to slip my unwilling feet into...to go somewhere I did not want to go.

They weren't even mine; they were my daughters. Fortunately, we wear the same size. They were the closest shoe my eyes saw as I shoved my phone in the back pocket of my cut-off shorts. Keys. Purse. Run past the mirror mounted on the wall...it didn't matter what I looked like.

If I had looked in the mirror, I would have seen my mouse-brown hair thrown into a messy bun of all messy buns. My eyes would have glistened with a dull unfamiliar fear.

The pupil of the eye is a marvel of human mystery. The way the little black circle expands when surroundings are dark to take in more light; the way the little circle retracts when light is bright because it knows the eye has enough light and doesn't need its help right now. It has one purpose; to help the eye adjust to the surplus or the want.

As I shut the back door behind me; I feared my light may go out. I feared the eyes of my heart may not be able to adjust.

If I had stopped one year ago to look at myself in the mirror, I would have winced into the glare of the western sun hitting the mirror just so at this time of day. Not that I look at myself so often, but I look out the window often and the window was next to the mirror. I love my view of the front field and the towering aged oak tree with a trunk the girth of a Redwood.

Most days I find that tree to be a picturesque pillar of strength. That day, the long shadows of it's craggy unleafed branches looked only forboding.

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Two hours later I had not yet shed a tear. Mile after mile, this highway that swept through the middle of my town felt only foreign. 

I drove. My oldest son (the one who had been with him when it happened), and my daughter, (the one whose sandals I was wearing) were both with me now. I had studied and taught Art History. They were as still and romanesque as marble statues come. The only thing moving in my truck during that drive was the slight adjusting of my grip on the wheel to get where we needed to be.

We needed to be in a city, not a small town. We needed a bigger hospital. 

We had dropped our littlest boy off at Grandma and Grandpa's in the harried rush. He was the only one little enough to still hold my hand in public without being self-conscious. I needed to feel his little warm hand in mine. My right hand strayed from the wheel and reached for the hand next to me that matched the size 9 shoe. She took it.

I had been told his helicopter would take only 12 minutes to reach the city. It would take my truck an hour to follow.

I could not have predicted the places my mind went during that hour drive, or the vividness of the memories. As I cracked the windows to feel a rush of wind, a longing so strong returned. 15 years had passed since I taught at that small-town school. 15 years had passed since my little girl was dropped off at Nia's Amish home during the day.

Why would this memory flood back now? Wind. Rolling hills. Farm country.

After a busy day at Nia's house, the little girl whose shoes I now wore often slept in the backseat lulled by the rhythm of the rolling hills. All was right in the world. It was a long drive. But, we were coming home...to him.

I wanted to come home to him again. 

My daughter sat beside me holding my hand. My son sat behind me holding my husband's glasses and brimmed hat. Together, we drove to the city on a smooth asphalt highway while I imagined a bumpy rural winding road in Amish Country.

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Just a few minutes before, the doctor pulled me aside into a shadowed corner...away from my children.

He spoke slowly. His unblinking eyes were steady but kind. "They are prepping him for transport. He has to get on that helicopter right now. You need to know we can not give you any guarantees. You have 20 seconds to say goodbye."

When they rolled him away, I could not come. Family was not allowed at the helicopter site. I entered this hospital with my husband. I would leave without him. 

What is worthy to be said with 20 seconds? Then, he was gone.

This was my town, my hospital and my highway. I had seen the helicopter land and take off from the rooftop before. On a very windy day; the back northeast corner of the parking lot was marked off with bright orange cones to minimize the risk of high-wind high-roof take-offs and landings.

Today was a windy day.

My sandals turned abruptly. The sidewalk greeted me as I backtracked and made speed to the front entrance of the ER.

Left. Left. Left, again. I was running now through the parking lot past the police car parked at a slant. I stopped one step inside the coned-off perimeter just in time to see the chartreuse green belly rise into the night sky beneath a torrent of swirling propellers. The man in uniform turned his head, but decided not to bother with me.

I stood on the tiptoes of my daughter's mock-Birkenstocks and raised my arm high into the sky. I did not wave because I was not trying to wave. I was trying to stay...as close as I could.

After a 20-second goodbye, seconds mattered. If seconds mattered; inches did, too. It was what I needed to do to stay close as long as I could.

My son stood just behind me. I lowered my hand and reached for his.

On any other night I would say it was one of the most beautiful displays of bright starry splendor the Indiana sky has to offer. But, I had no words; just memories that I recall now. We watched until we could no longer tell the difference between the tail lights of the helicopter and the twinkle of the stars.

Or maybe, the little black dot in the eye of my heart was opened wider to take in all the light it possibly could in a very dark moment. Maybe the unearthly brightness of the stars was both a gift and a promise from God that night.

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As I peck on my gray keyboard today, on this one-year anniversary of the brightest stars ever seen in Indiana, my husband ran out to pick up a pizza at our favorite place. He will come home to me soon. And, I still come home to him.

The old oak tree was split nearly in two by a storm this past year. It is still standing strong on its tiptoes while it's branches reach into the sky. It may not be all it once was. It's leaves are sparse and few. But, it is a favorite with the butterflies and their new beginnings. And, new beginnings are a favorite of mine.