I went to my room a few minutes ago to collect my laundry to wash. I was met at the upstairs landing by my 6-foot-tall, almost-17-going-on-four-year-old grandson asking me to sing him the lullaby I made up when he was an infant.
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I don't know if I remember it all, I said. He started me off, and I soon remembered a few lines and the tune.
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"Ai-yi-yi, Yi-yi, boo-boo,
Sang the baby boy.
It was the only song he knew;
Ai-yi-yi, boo-boo."
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"His grandmother rocked him back and forth
and sang him silly songs;
then, before you knew it, he fell asleep,
right there in her arms."
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I was beginning to choke up. I told him I couldn't sing any more.
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Sing it to me, Nanny.
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I just did, honey.
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No, I mean sing it to me after I get in bed.
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He couldn't hear it but my heart cracked clean in two. A hurt I try not to feel pushed against my ribs and my lungs, squeezing air out through the hole his words had cut into my chest. I was looking at the face of a little child, peering out through the body of a teenaged boy.
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I can't tonight, dear, but I will tomorrow night. That was the truth, I could not have sung those words again without sobbing and I knew he couldn't understand why I was crying even if I told him.
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Hell, I don't even know why myself. All I know is I hurt, I'm bawling, I'm feeling broken-hearted for him and I can't fix it, goddammit.
(c) 1992, 2009 Martha McLemore
