This Side of the Sea                                         
                                                                        By Michael Parker

In January of 2004, my wife J started to miscarry. This would have been our third child. She was approximately four weeks along.

The psychological and emotional trauma hit us square between the eyes, most especially J. She wondered if she did something wrong; if she was too old; if she was not living right; etc.

The sight of blood was different this time.

J tried to be stoic; treat this passing in a matter‑of‑fact way. But I could sense she was broken— I would hold her and wonder how to calm her tense and jittery muscles, a sign that she had been sobbing. I apologized and wondered how to get that spark back in her eyes. I felt so new at this.  I had thought myself skilled at offering comfort. But I floundered. No, I was simply failing.

I remember we did not tell the kids. But my eight year‑old son, M, knew something was not right.

M has always had a peculiar sense of awareness, coupled with an ability to interpret what he sees and hears, no matter their complexity. But what most impresses me about him is his desire to make things right again.

For example, a couple of years ago, when he was just six, a microburst blew in from the southwest. I was at work, standing by the windows watching the dark clouds roll in when it hit, this tremendously forceful gale. I could feel the push and pull on the windowpane, as if it would be sucked out or implode in on me at any moment.

The office building I worked at was a couple of blocks from a giant outdoor shopping center that was in the process of being built.  The wind wrecked havoc on the construction site. Giant squares of plywood, twenty or more in number, were ripped from their moorings one at a time and thrown into the air like dry leaves in the autumn storm. Co‑workers who had experienced a tornado half expected a funnel cloud to drop out of the sky.

When I got home that evening, I realized that the wind had taken its toll on our yard, uprooting our beautiful ornamental plum tree that stood in front of our living room window. It was lying across the driveway. (Two of our other trees were bent but salvageable.)

Other than the trees, the fence that lined our property was destroyed. And to top it off, one of the sections of fence had fallen on the garden faucet, somehow turning it on. By the time I returned home and was able to turn it off, the backyard was flooded.

J and I were in shock over the destruction.  But M was most upset about losing the ornamental plum tree.  He pleaded with us to save it.  Prop it up. Let it grow again. But I explained to him that there was too much damage to the roots.  No matter what we might attempt to save the tree, I explained, there would be no way the roots would be able to heal back to the tree.   To this, M mournfully replied: "The poor tree."

When the storm was finally over, the birds began whistling and chirping. It was an incredible chorus. M and I were looking out our living room window at the fallen tree. I said to M, "Can you hear the birds? They're singing. That means the storm must be over."

In a thoughtful tone, he corrected me: "No, they're singing to our tree. They=re going to miss it when its gone."

I looked at him. He continued looking at the fallen tree as if he were burning the image of it to memory. I put my arm around his thin shoulders and drew him close. "You=re right.  They are singing to our tree."

So it did not surprise me to find M in our bedroom early one morning after I had taken a shower. He was giving J a massage. (That=s his form of therapy when he senses one of us is stressed or not feeling well.)

M was kneeling at the side of J, the palms of his hands kneading her lower back. I was amazed at how coordinated his efforts were. I imagined it must be because of his Taekwondo classes. The study of this martial art technique focuses on the method and movement of your hands, the exactness of your form, and the mental control over your body and emotions in order to ascertain the movements of your opponent and to deliver precision kicks and hits. Indeed, it is a practice of mind over matter, about controlling your power, harnessing it, and releasing the energy when you need it most. Just the week prior to the miscarriage, M had passed his test to get his yellow belt.  In one of the tests, he broke his board on his first attempt.

As I was dressing, M integrated a story with the massage.  "I like to do this with my hands," he said, moving his hands over her back in circular motions so that the fingers appeared to jump out of a hiding place and then disappear again at the opposite side of the revolution.

"My fingers are fishes," he continued, letting the phrases fall out one by one as if each one was being delivered to his mom special delivery. "And all the fish in the sea are jumping out of the water; sharks and whales and dolphins and all of the sizes of fish. The water is alive and all the fishes are jumping because they are happy."

I watched J raise her head from the bed and brush her hand over the side of her face. The light from the hall revealed the wet of her cheeks. I got a lump in my throat. M worked on in silence.

I have never asked J what she thought M tried to say to her that morning. To me, I sensed many things, many possible genuine intentions.  But I knew how my heart interpreted his tale B "J, what is in you gives life and you are alive. We are all alive: you, me, M, and K; and we are happy here in this side of the sea."

Michael Parker has been an expert hack for many years—though much of that hacking has been a result of phlegm coagulating in his mouth during fanatical running regimens (which are typically an ungodly number of miles in length). He’s completed eight marathons, too many half-marathons and 10k’s to count, and has participated in two Hood-to-Coast races (198 miles each) in the beautiful state of Oregon.

Michael has been an avid literature aficionado since his early university days. He B.S.'d his way through a B.A. in English at the school that shan't allow the use of the phrase "B.S."—Brigham Young University. (Due to his liberal views, the school now disavows any recollection of his attendance, and vice versa.) But to know Michael is to realize that his love is film, (especially analyzing them), a love that was grounded in his pre-teen years as he worked as a concession-stand/ticket selling employee at his family’s old-fashioned, one-screen movie theater.

Michael is also a fledgling artist. Three of his paintings grace the walls of friends’ homes; and two of his paintings “The Tree of Life” and “A Vision of Hades” hung in a local gallery. An excerpt of one his many angel paintings “The Departure,” sits atop the banner of his blogsite.

He has worked as a technical writer for over ten years, had his poetry and articles published in Utah Magazine (now defunct), MiPoesias Cafe Cafe, and The Daily Herald, and has been an avowed political/entertainment blog-o-holic for two years. (See Michael Parker’s Journal for details.) He’s currently working on a thriller, tentatively titled The All-Star.  He, his wife, their two sons and daughter, and Lucky the dog live in Utah.