mother holding tightly to a child’s hand as he was dragging her toward the fountain. They stopped short of the crater’s edge and she held his shoulders with both hands looking into his face. She looked as if she was reluctant to let him go.
“James, remember what I said. Stay where I can see you.”
The boy nodded his head and quickly headed down the hill to the base of the fountain followed closely by his mother’s voice.
“James, I said, no running.”
“Okay.”
The boy moved close to the huge metal sphere. I could hear his laughter as he jumped in the puddles and places on the ground where the water was bubbling up. Suddenly the water was cascading in every direction. I couldn’t see the little boy anymore. The water swallowed him up but I could still hear his laughter. As I lay back in the grass everything seemed to disappear but his laughter.
Then it happened. In that moment, of hearing only the child’s laughter, I realized I was remembering their loss, not their gifts. I closed my eyes and I could feel Timmy’s hand in mine. I could actually hear his laughter in the little boy playing in the fountain. Bright and vivid memories filled with the laughter of the children as we pushed them up and down the hall in a wagon flooded my senses. Even making the sound of a car turning at high speeds that always seemed to make the nurses laugh and smile at our antics. These were the gifts they gave me, and many others who were lucky enough to be touched by their lives.
“Hey man, can you get our ball.”
I looked to my side surprised to see a football. It looked like some college kids were playing out in the park. I threw the ball back to them, I noticed some girls sitting under a tree laughing and giggling at each other. One girl in particular was watching one of the boys and every time he turned to look at her she would look down, her cheeks were a rosy pink as she blushed. It was funny to watch making me chuckle at myself because I had seen this before and didn’t realize it.
Another memory plucked out of hiding. Kayla, the young girl I had tutored in history, did the same thing. She would secretly flirt with a boy. But when he noticed, she would blush and look away. I remember once she tried it on me, and I just shook my head and walked away; not realizing it was truly a compliment.
I had been focused on the loss. All the lives I had touched also touched me. Their essence may be gone, but I would always carry who they were with me. I just had to remember the good things, the important ones. I needed to remember there was more to them than just death. I needed to remember the life they shared with me and to tell their stories. I was here. Then it came to me, the answer to Willy’s question. My glass was half-full. With every good memory, and thought, a drop was added. Finally this grasshopper got it. I could fill my glass drop by drop. By lives lived to the fullest in such a short amount of time. Or I can watch it disappear drop by drop. It wasn’t a hard decision. I would remember the lives lived, the laughter and tears of joy, and then maybe one day, my glass, like Willy’s, would be filled.
To say I was ready to get back to class after almost a week with Willy was an understatement. But he was right, I needed to stand back, take a fresh look at things. I prayed asking for guidance. The week with Willy seemed longer but I enjoyed our talks. I was glad to get my cataloging done, and getting things ready and put away for the summer. Most of the students were taking their exams, and would be finishing up this week. I couldn't wait for the warm days of summer.
“Mr. Starr, may I speak to you for a moment?” Professor Noland’s voice came from behind me. He always spoke with hardly any emotion but this time he sounded concerned. When I turned around to speak to him, concern was even etched there on his face.
“Yes, Professor, what can I do for you?”
“I know this is out of the ordinary, but I wanted to ask you if you can tutor a student. I know it’s last minute and so soon after Kayla’s death, but this is a special case. It’s for a friend of mine. His daughter was in that accident almost a month ago, and she’s having some problems with her memory. She was one of Kayla’s close friends. She needs special help. She’s getting a B- in my class, but she wants to get her grade up for her scholarship. She’s determined but she has been out of class for the last few weeks recovering. I told her I would give her two weeks from now, and then she has to take the final exam. Do you think you would have the time?”
“It’s not a problem, for what class?”
“My six o’clock world history. I know that’s not one of the classes you normally tutor but I would feel better knowing I gave her a fair chance.”
Though it wasn’t a class I helped him with, my first thought was history is history, world or otherwise. “My calendar is open, when would you like me to start?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, how is this evening after class? I can call her father and tell him to pick her up later. And Daniel, her name is Hope, Hope Shears.”
I slid into the library though a side door, hiding the fact I was carrying in my dinner, a bottle of juice and a sandwich. Chuckling to myself, it occurred to me Willy would have walked through the front doors with that picnic basket of his. I found an empty table with some chairs near the back of the library where they kept the older books. I figured not too many people used this area, so no one would see me eating my sandwich. When I finished, I opened up one of my favorite books, an older book, one about poetry. I usually read it at the library because I didn’t want to give Willy a chance to give me a hard time at home. Once I started reading the words took me to another time, another place.
“Excuse me, are you Daniel Starr?”
It took a minute for the soft hesitant voice to register in my brain. As I looked up to answer I saw green eyes, the color of emeralds, with tiny gold flecks in them. They stood out in contrast with her rich mahogany hair. She had a timid little smile, almost childlike.
“Yes, I’m Daniel Starr, can I help you?”
“My name is, Hope Shears, and yes, I need a lot of help.”
As I stood up to offer her a chair she seemed confused. She closed her eyes and sighed “With history”. Her voice was soft and sweet. She sounded like a child asking a question, not sure of herself. We went on to spend the evening talking. I learned that she was having problems with putting some things together. Hope could remember the name and date, but could not put a face to it. Or she could remember a town and not the country it was in.
“When I first got home from the hospital I didn’t know where things were even in my own house, I was so frustrated. So Dad put sticky-notes on everything, even colored coded them. I still have trouble with what cabinet the glasses are in. It’s getting better. I’m doing fine in my other classes, it’s just history!”
“I think we can fix the history problem. Can we meet here, after your last classes?”
“That’s not a problem. My dad doesn’t mind picking me up.” And all at once her smile disappeared. Something she was thinking made her sad and a tear ran down her cheek. I wanted to wipe the tear away and tell her things would get better in time, but I knew that it wouldn’t help.
“It’s getting late, my dad will be here to pick me up.” As she went to stand up, she grabbed the edge of
