The Indefatigable Art of the Tear

I had one peg in before Finn interrupted me.

“I help?” he asked, wielding a hammer half his size. He was a baby Thor, in hair and stature.

I sighed. Not because of him, but because of the fading sun and what was still left to do. “Sure,” I hesitated. “Of course you can.”

His eyes glowed. That silvery glow that circles the moon sometimes. Those grey globes staring up at me with their craters and pigments were more lunar than the night sky itself.

It’s hard to trust the capacity of a three year old. To believe them capable. The way he choked that sledge hammer. The way gravity brought it down rather than aim. The certainty of his target was as vague as the safety of my fist where it clamped nervously around the peg. The only thing assured was his participation, regardless of the outcome.

We had decided to go camping almost a year previous. The way bookings went between the summer and a pandemic meant that no weekend whim of ‘Hey! We should go camping!’ would suffice. It had to be planned. In advance of advance.

My wife was getting the tent poles ready. To her side Finn’s older sister had a determined look about her as she unfolded camp chairs into the arrangement most satisfactory to her eye. But Finn, he had a curiosity to him. A need to understand this tent business. As the mental gears turned he perceived what was necessary. A hammer and force. Like all his other activities.

The clash of metal against metal has a disturbing flatness to it when human hands absorb the impact. My eyes were open, but they had engaged the eyelids automatically with a sense of self-preservation. Finn lifted his smile, beaming at me with no need for appraisal. With hammer having landed more precisely than seemed feasible, the peg had plunged into the sand perfectly. No more than a tap was necessary to finish it off. Then, he clutched the pegs from my hand and marched off to complete the remainder.

No part of me resisted. No part of me dared take this from him. I felt myself rise unknowingly. A twinge in my ankle flaring from where he crashed one of his trucks into me the day before. I could only watch.

He started muttering to himself. Speaking aloud each step of the process in rapid syllables as he proceeded to stretch the tent out, measuring the tension to locate where the next peg was needed. He had only seen me do this once before. Even then he was just on the cusp of his third year. Something instinctual was working in him. Something that wanted to be useful. To lead.

My wife noticed my tear before I did. The salt in the air settled upon it, on my lips too, which was most appropriate. I glanced at her only after realising her attention. She had that grin she wears when seeing me like this. When she recognises something in me that chooses unusual moments to reveal itself. I know it as a well, one that rises up and floods my senses. With beauty, emotion, and awe. On most occasions the well weeps.

Finn raised his chin. He nodded at me the way I do to him sometimes. An affirmation inherited.

With that, I was a child again.

I remember dragging the stool to the clothesline with my tiny feet. I remember stretching out to the tips of my reach to clasp each peg. I remember dumping the clothes in the plastic basket that had sharp edges where the handle had cracked, and the hum of the night air filled with the city it swallowed.

I remember a thousand pieces of sticky tape on chairs and coffee table, prepared for the craft that was being created for students I did not know. Something playing on the television in the background, unnoticed in my determination to help. To show I could do it too.

I remember a cloud of dust, my outstretched arm holding a softball as two boys older than me came running towards home plate. I remember the ball touching them and an eruption of excitement. I don’t know what game of the season it was, but I know that we won, and I remember the look Mum gave me, the pride in her eyes. I can still taste the celebratory ice cream on the way home.

I remember a dog barking. Two of them. Big and fierce. Mum between them and me as a shield.

I remember unpacking boxes, probably carelessly, piling clothes and toys in stacks that seemed appropriately sorted. The eight hundred kilometre move to a house that now needed to be arranged, reducing the pile with an understanding that it was necessary.

I remember the jug boiling, spooning the instant coffee into the chipped cup. I’m pretty sure I was the one who chipped it. I could smell the powder in the air as I found what was quite obviously the sugar jar and scooped the two teaspoons into the cup too. I remember the sip Mum took, the way her eyebrows shot up, and then how she held her composure tasting salt.

I remember the endless digging, planting, and watering of trees as my parents began turning the land we were on into the vision their future would slowly reveal. So many times carrying milk bottles of water to the young seedlings, my childhood mind unable to properly perceive the scale in which they thrived, but knowing the promise of what they would be.

I remember the car stopping, high beams on and Mum slowing traffic as a snake passed across the road. A similar snake had taken her cat mere days prior.

I remember seeing Mum tow my brother and sisters around the zoo, excitedly pointing out the different animals, and I can feel the grasp of my young sister on my shoulders as I carried her around, trying to ease the load.

I remember my brother with his foot under a bus wheel, his bag clamped in the door. I can still feel the tug of the shoe I tore off his crushed bones, and Mum raising him up and off to hospital with a speed I hadn’t seen of her. I can remember him in the ward for the weeks after, smiling happily. I can remember being confused by how much I saw behind the expression on Mum next to him.

I remember not knowing what to call her at school when she started teaching again, wondering if I was supposed to use a different name, but being so excited by her being there. I remember the day she taught my class and thinking about how everyone else knew who she was.

I remember standing back from the crowd as the corner was kicked, the soccer ball bouncing off a header as predicted and feeling the rush of knowing I was right. I remember sending that ball into the air in a perfect arc and knowing Mum was watching, and then the complete disappointment when it skipped over the top bar of the goal. I remember the gasp of defeat from the sidelines, but also the clapping hands she proudly shared.

I remember her tying knots and paddling canoes, being a leader. The sound of her laughter during weekend scout camps as she taught me lashings, the pop of popcorn in the camp oven over the fire. I remember her being the first to jump, the one ready to climb, the voice that encouraged.

I remember the crunch of the van door sliding shut each time she closed it for us, and the thousands of trips she drove when we needed.

I remember the joy she held over an oyster, and being unsure why.

I remember her smiling widely at me as I asked a girl to dance, and then when I fumbled through the steps nervously.

I remember late nights watching films and hearing her stories, of the blackouts that took power from our house and the conversation over candles.

I remember sharing turns of video games, of solving puzzles and being excited by the next. I remember the hours spent to finish each one.

I remember the birthday parties and their themes. The games and cakes. The costumes and glory. Especially the cakes.

I remember holding my award, a photographer clicking the cameras as my hand was shaken by someone so revered. But it was Mum who I was most joyed to see smiling.

I remember the massages I gave her when her neck was at its worst. The back rubs I attempted when her heart was doing odd things and had her so worried for so long.

I remember high school, with all its tendrils, not fitting in but wondering what is was to fit. Then hearing her stories, and what they meant.

I remember my parents splitting up and understanding why, but not comprehending. I remember the confusion, and then long after the lesson I took from it all.

I remember her knowing my friends. And them thinking she was cool. I remember the nerves in her voice when she first said yes to me driving places with them.

I remember the texts and phone calls just to make sure I was safe.

I remember the ten thousand cups of tea.

I remember the funeral for my friend, and her hugging me close seeing how it was changing me.

I remember when relationships failed and she was always there, sometimes with words, sometimes without. Even the times she didn’t know about and was just there to listen.

I remember moving away and her explaining to me how to roast a chicken. In reality, I have never actually roasted one.

I remember the first time she knew I was drunk.

I remember the foosball table she gave me and the hundreds of sleepless nights that followed from it.

I remember seeing the photos of her with my friends. Relationships formed that she valued so much.

I remember her cheer when I got my degree.

I remember the stories of rescued koalas, and the passion from which she spoke.

I remember hearing she had jumped out of a plane.

I remember her tears and struggles, her hardship and tenacity.

I remember her speaking at my wedding. A quaver in her voice betraying more emotion than she perhaps wanted. Then the performance on violin which she had spent so long practising.

I remember her smiling at my children, hugging them and listening to their voices.

I remember the pain on her face when I moved overseas. The hope and faith that it was not forever.

I remember her reassuring me when I have doubted myself.

I remember her always caring. Always loving. Always doing.

I remember giving advice, and feeling strange about it.

I remember feeling all this and more, and never knowing exactly what it was I needed. Now, as I stared down at Finn and wondered what it was he needed I still didn’t have an answer. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps the answer was more obvious than I understood. Perhaps in a lifetime to come he would look back and remember this tiny moment. How many others too?

A line had torn through the dust on my cheeks. A single tear. Its descent carving a path as stormwaters had done across this coastline for billions of years. I thought of the countless tears shed by countless parents across countless moments and the infinitude of it all. Their landscape of emotion. Tears spilt, and why a single tear like this was the most powerful of all. It was a tear for what came next, but also what had been.