Light – It Warps My Time
Originally Published 2004 – Mosaic Minds Magazine
by Cylithria Dubois
At this very moment the golden, the morning-fresh rays of the sun are streaming down upon the earth, myself and where I sit. I glance up from my screen. Instantly the deep, intrinsic hues of golden light shower my sight. The angle of the light as it pours over my world, the intensity and the resilient coloration causes time to warp.
It’s a Sunday morning, in the summer of 1993. It’s almost time to go to my son’s church. I step out my front door to look for my five-year-old son and our visitor, David. As soon as I step off the porch the golden, morning-fresh rays of the sun are streaming down upon the earth and where I stand. Instantly I spot my son.
Crouched down while holding something carefully in his left hand, my son reaches upwards to David and gently takes the pliers David holds. David squats after my son offers a “thank you.” My son lowers the pliers to whatever is in his hand. I walk closer to them both.
“I don’t know, buddy, that hook looks like it might be set. You might hurt the little fellow. Maybe we should take him to the pond and let him go,” David suggests.
I spy a turtle being carefully held by my son. Jutting out from under the softer portions of its shell is a large, barbed fishing hook, attached to a broken piece of line.
“He crawled into my yard for a reason, Uncle David. He needs my help. I will help him,” my son vows.
David stares at the hooked turtle as intently as my son does. I watch them both. The deep, intrinsic hues of golden light shower over both of them and the turtle. Carefully my son examines how best to pull the hook from within the turtle’s living wall of protection. In one skillful motion my son crimps down the barb on the hook end.
My son’s tie falls from his chest, down in his way. David reaches out and holds it back. In one swift move David removes his own tie bar and slides it perfectly onto my son’s shirt, between the buttons. The pesky tie is held out of my son’s vision and both of them return their attention to the turtle.
“Should we get a dressing for the wound, Uncle David? He may bleed,” my son asks softly.
“Turtles don’t use band-aids, buddy.”
“Momma says every bleeding wound should have a clean cloth pressed upon it firmly until the bleeding stops.”
David reaches into the left breast-pocket of his suit and extracts a handkerchief. “This will work,” he whispers to my crouched turtle doctor.
“Right, copy that, sir,” my son replies. He is using what he thinks is Momma’s EMT radio talk. He’s never been with me in an ambulance while I was on a call, but he’s heard me talking on military frequencies. I chuckle. My son is such a serious, detail-oriented little man.
“I’m removing the hook on my mark. Three … two … one … mark.”
I suck in my breath as both David and my son lean closer over the turtle. In one deft move the pliers extract the hook as delicately as possible. No sooner does blood appear than David covers it with his handkerchief and applies pressure.
As my son brandishes the set of pliers now firmly gripping the rusty old fishing hook, he looks to David and smiles.
“Hey, you’re a pretty good nurse, Uncle David.”
“Thanks, buddy, you’re some turtle doctor.”
My son looks back at his wounded turtle friend. David is smiling brightly.
“Veterinarian,” my son states in a monotone.
“Someone holding a degree in medicine and practicing on animals is a veterinarian, Uncle David.”
David blinks and looks from the turtle to my five-year-old son. My son studiously examines the rest of the turtle’s shell. David’s eyes fill with wonder.
My son continues to talk as though nothing unusual is occurring, “Nurses whose degrees are for working on animals are called vet techs. So I was wrong. You’re not a pretty good nurse, but you’re a great vet tech, Uncle David.”
David smiles proudly at the top of my son’s studious head. I smile just as proudly. My pride isn’t only for my son, it’s also for David. Seeing a child for who he is instead of who you want him to be is a beautiful thing. David does it well.
My eyes fill with tears. I love these men, both the younger one and the older. The angle of the light as it pours over my world, the intensity and the resilient coloration causes my sight and time to warp.
Once again I am glancing up from my screen. The golden, morning-fresh rays are streaming down upon where I sit and the world around me. Before me I see a much older David handing a pair of pliers to a young man crouched over a helmet. I watch them both.
“I don’t know, man, that thing seems shot. Maybe you should just turn it in and get a new one, Eckle,” David suggests.
The young man reaches for and takes the pliers. David squats. The young man shakes his head vehemently, “No way, sir, this is my helmet. I will fix it.”
Instantly the deep, intrinsic hues of golden light shower over both men. The angle of the light as it pours over them, the intensity and the resilient coloration causes me to smile. Did less than a minute just pass? It felt like a lifetime.
Light — it warps my time.
Cylithria Dubois ©2004 – 2012