I can't do something....

Aaron was probably 5, Patrick was months old. We went on a walk around our new neighborhood on one of those in-between spring days we know in Madison, WI. I was wearing a sweater. Patrick was in a stroller. Cathy was pushing the stroller. Aaron had his new bike.

Down the hill, about 2 blocks from our house we approached a house with some young girls playing in the driveway/yard. Aaron, forever the one to make new friends in an instant, rode up to show the girls his new, blue bike. Within moments of greeting the girls, Aaron was off of his bike and on his way to explore the back yard hill and woods. We stayed behind to chat with the Mom.

Last year, in the spring, probably on a nice day in March, Cathy, Aaron, and I remembered how this walk ended. Aaron recalled vividly the color of the sweater I was wearing: pink. No, it wasn't pink, it was salmon...Sort of a pink. He told me he liked that sweater. I don't know why I owned a sweater that color, but I did.

Today I took a walk along the back side of those woods. It was a pleasant afternoon. Late winter cool, no wind, and snow coming. The ground was mushy soft in the field. The path into the woods was covered in last fall's gray leaves. I walked in to where I remember the walk from 14 years ago ended. Some patches of snowy ice were right where they were, frozen in time. Just like a memory scene in a movie, where the character flashes back to an event buried in the "archives of the mind" as my friend Lloyd Kincaid, used to say, I could feel the rush of adrenaline.

"Dad!! Dad!! Help!!!" The screams of my son in danger jolted me from our chit-chat in the driveway. I ran to the back of the house, yelling to Aaron, "Aaron, where are you?" The wooded hill behind the house had a path which I ran up, but couldn't see Aaron. "Dad! Dad!" he screamed. I ran to the sound of his loud cries. The first thing I saw of Aaron was him standing sideways to me. He was wearing a little boys, blue baseball, windbreaker jacket. Aaron was holding his right hand with his left hand. The right hand palm was up. Deep dark, red blood was pouring from his hand and spilling onto his white and blue, velcro strap tennies.

"Dad!! I can't do something!!! I can't do something!!!" I swooped Aaron up in my arms and took off running. The Mom had us go into the kitchen and run water on the jagged gash. Our perfect little boy, had a not so perfect big gash in the fat part of his palm, beneath his thumb. Blood ran freely from the wound. We wrapped something around his hand and I sprinted the best I could, up the long hill to our house, with Aaron in my arms. Cathy "walked" behind with Patrick, the stroller, and the new blue bike. My legs ached, I was hot, and Aaron was very heavy and his legs were very long. The front of my pink-salmon sweater was covered in blood, sweat, and big tears.

Stitches at the clinic put the layers of skin back together. There was no blood mixed in the ice and snow on the ground of the wooded hill today. I stood there looking about and remembering how Aaron remembered the event. At the time he said he fell on some "ice". Last year he recalled the ice was actually glass. Today I could see several bottles, old cans, and debris. The Aaron of 17-18 was a man of nature. He believed in leaving his campsite cleaner than when he arrived. Doc had uncovered a long plastic bag in the field. I filled it with glass bottles, some cans, and other debris from the hill.

Walking back to home, my mind went to the report of Aaron's final injury. The typed report said the time was 1:26 pm on May 10, 2005. A seven inch diameter bruise on his chest. Some abrasions. A possible broken left lower leg. A bloody nose. About that same time as the man was making the notes of what he was seeing, I was calling my son to suggest a possible job for after school. I know I left a message. No one heard my message. It would be another hour and 20 minutes before I would hear from the man who wrote the report. He had awful news to relay to me.

Slipping on the greasy ground along the edge of the field my eyes teared up and my arms ached. I thought, "Aaron, Aaron!!! I can't do something!! I can't do something!" A Dad's gotta be able to help his son. That's our job.

I miss you Aaron.

Love Dad