Lullabies

(continued)

By Julie Richmond

Night after night we found our way to the chair. You seemed to have no special preference, but I dropped the Chinese one because Genie said the high notes made me sound like a sick cat.

Feeling your body relax into mine, watching your wide eyes watch my face, the wall, the light and then seeing the slow, struggling descent of your lids, your lashes — I think those were some of the finest moments of my life.

About six months after you were born September 11 happened. You’ll read about it in history books soon enough. Yesterday you turned two and to you, September 11 is the day after your best friend Todd’s birthday.

That day is why I’m writing you these pages — as an apology. On the night of September 11, my voice went silent.

My mother, your grandmother, was on one of the planes that flew into the towers in New York City. That evening at bedtime, I sank heavy into our lullaby rocking chair. You lay your head on my chest, right on that same spot you had from the beginning. When I opened my mouth to sing, I could not. All I could hear was my mother’s voice in my head; she was screaming. I brought you back to Genie and walked away without looking back. On the cellar steps I sat, weeping, the noise drowned out by the sound of the washing machine. I stayed there till the wash was done.

The next night when we found ourselves back in that chair, I realized I had no lullabies left in me. So in my kindest voice, I told you all about what happened. You were asleep before I even mentioned the Pentagon.

Every night for the next six months, this ritual continued. Instead of sweet melodies about lost dogs, dropping cradles and Frere Jacques, you heard about anthrax and the jetliner where one of the passengers had confetti inside a birthday card inside her handbag. I told you about the firemen and policemen. During that first week I told you over and over again we had to have faith — more people would be found alive under the rubble. For the next week and the months after that I told you about heroes and foolishness, about rebuilding and about war and about all different kinds of faith.

By the time you turned one, I abandoned our nightly world updates. I wanted you to become familiar with the concept of mass destruction when we watched our sandcastle swallowed up by the ocean, not from my nightly diatribe about President Bush.

Nowadays at bedtime we tell each other stories. Some nights it is my turn; some nights it’s yours. They all prominently feature a charming squirrel called Toad. This squirrel leads a fascinating life. On the nights when you do the storytelling and you drop off before I feel we’ve reached a satisfying conclusion, I will catch myself wondering what happens at the end.

Some nights, just before I join your mom in bed, I find myself back in your nursery. When I have the courage to pray, this is the only place I can.

Tonight I was up late watching the football game. By mistake, I didn’t turn off the TV quickly enough, I caught a glimpse of the news. We are sending more troops to Iraq.

I find myself, not standing over your crib in my usual spot, but instead in our lullaby chair looking at you through the bars. I rock back and forth, the chair has developed a squeak, I rock back and forth.

Then — I guess somewhere in my own head — in a voice sweeter than she ever had while alive, I hear my own mother’s voice. She is singing to me, to us, one of our old lullabies.

My eyelids are heavy now. The weight of the world has gone somewhere else.

For the first time in a very long time, I will sleep well. I will dream the dreams of a child. Perhaps you and Toad and I will meet up in the night and have an adventure so magnificent we will still remember it in the morning.