My son is six days old, and I do not believe in angels.
Don't take that the wrong way: he's beautiful, in a way I've never known before. I can just stare at him, marveling at the way he purses his lips and raises his eyebrows while he sleeps, or watching his lower lip quiver as he emits his low-pitched, angry cries. I love just talking nonsense to him, blabbing about nothing in particular just so he can hear the sound of my voice. He knew my voice from his first moments, going from full-on wailing to curious attention with only a few words from his old man. Every time it happens, I'm amazed by it: this little person places such faith and trust in me that a few nonsensical words can bring him back from the abyss and into the firelight once again. This is the stuff on which families are built.
But he's very much a little human: he poops (believe me, he poops), he cries at inopportune hours (usually starting when we put him down around nine at night), and he struggles to figure out whether fingers in his mouth can help him feed more effectively (they can't). He's wonderful, but he's no angel.
We've just taken his big brother--formerly known as "the dog"--for a walk. Since we got back from the hospital, these walks have been exclusively with one parent or the other, but tonight we're getting the whole family together for it (minus the cats, who would sooner take a bath inside a roaring vacuum cleaner). The air on this first night of November is crisp, but not too cold. It's a good fall evening. My son is bundled up in a thick blanket, along with hat, thinner receiving blanket, and a onesie; cradled close to his mama's chest he's as warm as can be. His brother is a little less sanguine: this noisy little bundle has dropped an atom bomb on the poor dog's existence. His skin is actually breaking out in stress-induced hives, and there's been a lot of whining and nervous barking at invisible things. He's been great with the baby, if a little overly-concerned, but the strain is showing on the poor guy. The walk is good for him, but from his fidgety leash-tugging I'm not sure if he'd prefer it if we left the baby out of it.
We do our usual loop, my wife and I making small talk about how gosh-darned cute our newborn is and what a good job we did with him. It's been a frenetic week, between delivering a baby into the world and then having relations over all day long, and the chance to spend time with just our little family is a real balm on our souls. We're all tired, though, so when we're maybe two dozen feet from the stairs up to our apartment and our eldest pops a squat, it's met with groans from both parents. The trash can is a fair bit behind us, and it's not like we're going to take his poop home with us.
"You go ahead," I tell my wife. "I'll run this back to the dumpster and be up in a minute."
She nods wearily, and I can tell from her eyes that she's torn between wanting to do this together, as we always have, and the fatigue that we're discovering is part of parenthood. The other thing we're discovering is that taking care of one another is more important than ever, and when one of us offers to do something like comfort the baby at 3am or let the other one go inside a few minutes early, the best thing to do is be grateful. She gives me a kiss and heads up the stairs with our son.
I've got the little mound scooped and bagged in moments, tying it off with fingers long accustomed to such work. As I tug on the dog's leash slightly and he starts to trot alongside me, I take a deep breath and look around. Our apartment complex is sizeable; our building is to my left and a matching one is to my right, with asphalt and cars snuggled up to each one. I'm standing in a grassy median between the two parking areas, maybe a dozen yards wide and a hundred or so long. In the summer, residents will bring grills down here and cook out, laughing and drinking and making merry. Under the autumn starlight, the strip of green is empty, and I trudge wearily down the sidewalk that bisects it, heading in the direction of the community dumpster.
"Congratulations," comes a voice from on high. "I see that you just had your baby."
My head whips around. There is someone else out here, a middle-aged Hispanic guy wearing a dark red jacket and heading in the same direction I am. I'd actually been slowing down a bit to let him get in and out of the dumpster area before crowding it with a stressed-out pit bull. There's no chance in the world that my dog would hurt the guy, but I could definitely see some excited jumping and licking, and that's just not what everybody wants when taking the trash out in the dark.
However, it isn't this guy who's talking; the voice came from my right, from the other set of apartments. We've all got balconies, and I scan over the ones opposite my building to see if I can figure out where the voice is coming from. I don't see anyone... but there's a bright light shining into the parking lot from one of the support columns on the second-floor balcony nearest me, and maybe I can make out a figure...
"Boy or girl?" the voice prompts.
"Boy," I call back. "And thank you; it's been awesome so far." The voice is definitely coming from that balcony.
"I've got some of my own," the voice replies. It's male, but I can't tell much more than that. I haven't really seen any sign of movement from the figure on the balcony, but the light is bright enough that my eyes are totally dazzled, so who knows?
It continues, "It really is wonderful." Then, pausing, as if figuring out that it needs a little bit of explanation, it offers, "I sit out here in the evenings, sometimes. I've seen you all walking before."
That does sound a bit familiar; I think I've seen someone on that balcony before. Still. "Yeah, we just got back from the hospital a couple of days ago. It's been kind of exhausting."
I can hear the voice smile. "But it's worth it. I promise you that."
There's something about the way he says it... the way he promises and doesn't just tell me it's so... I feel warm inside, and familiar. I smile back. "Thanks," I say, "I believe you."
I'm at the dumpster by now, and it blocks me from his view as I walk up the short path to the trash chute and creak the steel door open. I fling the poo bag over the top of the piled bags that my neighbors have left sitting right at the top of the chute--really, does no one think to try to put their trash all the way into the dumpster?--and head back down to the parking lot. I squint up at the balcony again, from a slightly different angle than before that has the light shining not as directly into my eyes.
Nothing. Nobody is up there. I can't see it clearly, but I can make out an empty chair. At least, I think I can; it's still dark and I'm still running on "new dad" levels of sleep. I'd been up at the dumpster for what, twenty, thirty seconds? Long enough for someone to have decided to go in. There's enough ambient noise out here that I probably wouldn't have heard the balcony door open and close. Right?
"Well... have a good night," I offer to the darkness. "And thanks."
The darkness makes no reply.
As I climb the stairs toward warmth, and my waiting wife and son, it strikes me what day this is: November 1, All Saints' Day. In times past, many believed that on the previous night, All Hallows' Eve, the restless dead stalked the earth. It was a dangerous time to be out at night. But come middle watch, the souls of the virtuous dead had their chance to visit the world once again. I'm pretty sure legend had it that these souls only had until dawn to journey about; daylight has come and gone again since then. Still... the thought tickles the back of my mind: who was that, really? A friendly neighbor?
Probably. But maybe not...
I don't believe in angels. They come with too much baggage. But something about the idea of one of my son's great grandparents--or his great, great, great grandparents--stopping in for a quick visit... well, that's not so awful.
It was probably a neighbor. I'll see him again one night, he'll ask about the baby in a familiar voice, and the spell will be broken. But in the meantime...
Whoever you were, wherever you are, may your dreams be sweet, and your promises true.