The Accident (finally)

The Accident

I overhear them talking in the kitchen. They are whispering. Quick, sharp utterances dart across the room as it often happens when adults talk about someone. It takes me a while but I soon figure out who this person is. They call him ‘an accident’.

I strain to listen, my body leaning as closely as possible but not too far out so that I remain hidden behind the door. I hear them describe the event in a manner that emphasizes their disgust for it. The love-sick teenage couple, the sinful act in the school’s cubicle, the missed period, the many missed periods and the bump that held the baby-the accident.

By now my body is aching, but my mind is racing. I compare this information to what I already know about him. He was the guy who won first place in his school’s spelling bee competition at 7, was elected ‘employee of the month’ when working at McDonald’s at 15, dated the most beautiful girl in university, went on to marry her, was voted ‘most likely to live past 100’ at his graduation, taught in several third world countries with his wife, screamed louder than his wife when his first child was born, was asked to leave the room for the second one, discovered a way to eat noodles with one chopstick (taught his kids this skill), is able to sing the alphabet backwards (is still teaching this his kids this skill), bakes the best chocolate chip muffins ever, tells the funniest stories and always always remembers our birthdays. This boy, who is now a man, has accomplished and is still accomplishing so much.

By now, I am sure as sure that their information pales in comparison to mine. Knowing about his history doesn’t change anything. I only feel sorry for the people who would label him, and because of that, fail to see what a great person he is.

I relax from my stiffened position and creep softly to the living room. There he is all 6 feet 2 inches of him reclining on the couch. If I can add another talent to his list of many, it would be his ability to sleep in any position, at any time. I see his bowl of half-eaten noodles on the table, and yes, just one side of the chopsticks in it. I remember when he first taught me how to do that and how patient he was when I didn’t get it.

Taking the bowl away, I lean close to him and give him a kiss on his cheek. He opens his eyes and smiles. “Thank you, Sweetheart,” he says before closing them again. “Anytime,” I reply. I am about to walk out when I pause at the door and look at him. His chest rises and falls as air enters and escapes through his half-open mouth. Other people may still see him as an accident, especially if they’ve heard his story, but for me, all I see, is a very sleepy Dad.