Désiré

This happened to me almost a year ago.

“Sir. I am feeling troubled. I do not know how to express this feeling without sounding like something else is speaking for me.”

“Son, I recall this previous occasion in which you told me you like to write short stories. You said writing makes you feel calmer.”

“Yes, sir. That is correct.”

“Speak to me as if I am your reader.”

“I do not know sir. I feel like my stories make no sense. I am the only one who understand my pain.”

“You will never know that if you do not share with anyone. What if I feel the same pain as you?”

“I doubt it, sir. You do not sound disturbed like I do.”

“I have seen you interact with many people, and you do not seem troubled. I am not saying I do not believe you when you say something is bothering. What I am saying is that there must be something that makes you detach from that which has been bothering you and brings you to me today to speak and be heard.”

“The children at the school where I work at.”

“You care about them?”

“Absolutely, sir. I would not want anything to happen to them.”

“I was going to ask you if they appreciate you, but I already know the answer. Children know when people care about them. You should trace back to your childhood and visualize those individuals who showed the same appreciation for you.”

“My mother.”

“Yes. Mothers.”

“That is what is bothering me, sir.”

“Tell me.”

Yesterday morning, I was making my way the aisles, and I came across a boy. His sadness stood out from the crowd of merry first graders who were eating their usual ante meridiem snack. My morality instructed me to approach him.

“Are you okay?”

Three simple words.

“I,” he replied, “miss my mommy.”

“You love your mommy?”

“I do.”

“Is she working?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not worry. She will pick up after school.”

He continued crying for his mother and repeating the same words. I figured that reassuring him that his mother would come pick him up would was doing little to console him. I told him that I knew why he and his mommy loved each other so much, but he kept repeating that he missed her and wanted to see her—now! He stared at me and said something I was not expecting. “Do you miss your mommy, sir?”

I did not know what to answer. I felt like I was trapped in one of the tears he shed from his hazel eye, which ran down his cheek. I visualized myself sitting right next to him. Leaning forward. Motionless. With my hand on my chin like any other man who submerged in his thoughts. With my eyes wide-open like The Desperate Man. I visualized myself staring back at the boy. His skin was turning as dark as mine, for the clouds and the sun were casting the right amount of light and shadow to make him look like Jean Désiré Gustave Courbet’s portrait.

“I. miss…”

He gathered his breath before breaking the silence with a sob.

“MOMMY!”

I did not realize he did not say the word many think of as denoting ownership. He did not say ‘my.’ I did, as well as the verb through which I communicated myself and whoever was paying attention to my intervention, that I still felt the absence of my mother and could not understand why. I gathered my thoughts and asked him if he missed his mother. I did not know exactly why I asked him something so obvious, but it was too late. Luckily, he did not sob anymore.

“Yes, sir.”

I was left confused. I knew I had not heard that voice in a long time—calmed like a rainy day.

“Listen to me. No matter how old we get, we will always need our mom by our side.”

“Is my mommy coming back?”

“Yes, she will. When you see her, hug her like if you have not seen her in a very long time.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Are you telling me the truth, sir?”

“I am. She misses you as much as you miss her.”

“Hey!” he asks in the same tone, which I recognized.

“What?” I smiled nervously.

“How do you know I miss her?”

“I can read minds.”

I looked deep into his eyes. Our eyes became one pair. He did not blink. He was not afraid anymore.

“My mommy will never leave me,” he said with a big smile, and then proceeded to get up. He grabbed his tray and gathered his trash. He said “thank you” and asked me for my name. I was speechless. The only thing I could think of was that I wished I could see my mother again.

“Son. Are you telling me that you spoke to your younger self?”

“I do not know, sir. If I did, I am happy that he will saw his mother. Hopefully, he did what I told him to do.”

“Then, why are you troubled?”

“Today is Sunday. It is yet another week since I saw my mother for the last time.”

“What are you expecting then? Go find your mother and do exactly what you told the boy to do. Go ahead. Take advantage of this moment. You will regret it someday when God claims her good soul.”

“I thought psychologist were not men of God. Nonbelievers.”

“We do. We are just young, afraid men.”

I still think about that conversation, and the many conversations I had with my mother. She was convinced that I did not believe God exists. I still have my doubts. I will continue seeking answers through science—like Dr. Freud often did. However, if these sort of mystic experiences keep coming to me in my dreams, I will open up my soul. No matter how old I get, I will always be a young boy.