Mr. Nightingale

I was only 3 years old when Mr. Nightingale came into my life. To me, he was a friend, everything but imaginary. He stood 7 feet tall, dark red skin, black shirt and pants, and a white trench coat that was always clean regardless of what we did together. He also had a black walking stick with a bird on top.

The first time he came was the day that tragedy struck my family. A storm had knocked out all of the power in the neighborhood. My parents placed oil lamps around the house. I remember the thunder being so loud and strong that the walls shook. A plate fell off the wall and crashed right where Mindy was sleeping. She woke up barking and ran around the house looking for a safe place to hide. She ran under the bed in my parent’s room, knocking down one of the lamps on the way. The fire spread so quickly that nobody really had a chance to respond. I ran after Mindy, but somebody grabbed me and pulled me out of the house. I found myself in the tree house in the back yard. Mr. Nightingale was giving me a hug. When I opened my eyes, nobody was there. A firefighter was at the base of the tree talking on the radio. “I found him.”

Mr. Nightingale came again later that year. We moved into my grandmother’s house for a little while. My father didn’t want to stay there. He said that the area was not safe. Mom told him that it was only until the new house was ready. They would fight all the time. The day that he walked out, I wanted to run after him, but grandmother grabbed me. He held on to me and told me he’d be back someday. I didn’t like that word. “Someday”. To me it meant when I was older. How much older, I did not know.

That very night, I was in the bed, but not asleep. I heard a noise coming from the living room. The front door opened. I was sure that it was father, so I jumped out of the bed and ran to greet him. What I saw was a man dressed in all black including a black face mask. I specifically remember the black gun he had in his hand. He looked right at me. That’s when a white bird flew out of the fireplace, picked me up, and carried me away. It was Mr. Nightingale. He protected me. He kept me safe. With his help, the police were called, and the gunman was taken away.

I was called a hero. I told everybody that it wasn’t me. I told them about Mr. Nightingale, but nobody believed me. My doctor told my parents that it was healthy for a child my age to have an imaginary friend. But Mr. Nightingale was anything but imaginary. He was real. I couldn’t explain why nobody else ever saw him. But he was real.

We moved out of my grandmother’s house shortly after that. It was Mr. Nightingale who showed me the house one block away from our old house. When we moved in, our first visitor was father. When I saw my mother and father hug, it made me smile. Mr. Nightingale held my hand. He made those few moments feel like an eternity. He aways made joy seem to last forever.

When I was 5 years old, I started school. Kindergarten was the time for me to make new friends, form lifetime bonds. It was Mr. Nightingale that helped me meet John, Mike and Bobby. We quickly became best friends. We did everything together. Living on the same block made it easier for us to hang together.

These 3 are still my best friends to this day. But the more time that I spent with my friends, the less I saw of Mr. Nightingale. When I was 8 years old, Mr. Nightingale showed up on a day that I felt no distress. I was shocked but happy to see him. He took me away to a far away land. He told me that he had bad news but that I was well enough to handle it. He told me that he would not be able to see me anymore. I started to cry but he dried my tears. He said that there were other children that needed his help. By letting him go, it was like I was helping other children. This made me smile.

The flight home took hours. When I arrived, it was as if not a second had passed. I continued hanging out with my friends and never saw Mr. Nightingale again. But that is not the end of his story.

When I was 28 years old and had an 8-year-old son of my own, my family took a vacation to Aspen Mountain Ski Resort. My father went skiing by himself. This wasn’t recommended, but he felt that he was a good enough skier to do so without worrying about it. That day, there was an avalanche. Father was caught in it.

There was no way to get heavy equipment to his location. It took rescuers 2 days to dig him out from the cave he was trapped in. His left leg and 3 ribs were broken but he was bandaged up with a splint on his leg. Otherwise, he was in perfect health. Nobody could explain why he was in such good condition. He said that he had help. Although there was no other way out or in, he swore that there was someone else in the cave with him. Doctors said hallucinations were common in cases like his—brought on by stress, trauma, and cold. They called it “delirium.”

But my father was not delirious. I knew this for a fact when he gave the description of the man with him.

He stood 7 feet tall, dark red skin, black shirt and pants, and a white trench coat that was clean despite that ordeal they went through. He also had a black walking stick with a bird on top.

I have no idea where Mr. Nightingale went after that. Most people believe that he was never really here.