Sonny
Sonny
I am young. Silently, I sit on a stump; the flowered dress I wear crinkles under me. Looking down at my bare feet, I see a butterfly, brilliantly blue, fly down from the overgrown grass field beside me.
I hear a twig snap and the insect flies toward the source; there stands a boy of about my age, staring at me with a blank expression. His mouth is slightly agape as I ask him “who’re you?”
Suddenly, he closes his eyes and I hear him give a dry sob. I get up off my seat and wrap my arms around him. His expression changes suddenly. Gently smiling, he whispers a word in my ear.
“Sonny.”
--
A few months after I learn his name, I meet the rest of Sonny’s family. His father is rarely home, but his mother cares for him more than I’ve ever seen. We go to the river every week, Sonny, his mother, and me.
As the leaves around us crack and fall in the October breeze, Sonny and I dip our feet in the cold water. His mother plays in the grass with a butterfly. He doesn’t speak much to me, or anyone, and often some older boys from town like to try and make him. We usually feel safe with his mother.
Running up along the opposite bank, one of the boys stops when he sees Sonny.
“Hey, dummy,” he yells to our party. “Are you gonna say anything today?”
Sonny’s mother just looks at the boy before rounding Sonny and me up to leave. I notice a tear running down Sonny’s cheek.
--
It is a few years later, I am no longer a child, yet farther away from an adult than a baby. I watch Sonny hug his father, the sailor. Sonny always tells me of how his daddy saddles the waves halfway across the world.
Sonny finally lets go and the sailor strides toward a car that will carry him to the sea. Turning back to me, Sonny smiles a teary-eyed smile and we make our way to the small house overlooking the wild farm the used to be. It is home.
--
The sailor hasn’t come home yet, and it’s been another few years. Sonny and I go up to the river again, and we sit under a tree whose leaves are bursting to give us shade. But we don’t go to the river to cool our feet anymore.
Momma. A marble stone has the one word carved into it. Sonny laid the stone there when his mother passed on, but his daddy insisted that she be buried in a cemetery far away. We never go there to visit, because we don’t know what it’s like outside the town. I know Sonny misses his mother, and I hope his father comes home soon.
--
An adult. I am an adult, and I have lived with Sonny my entire life. Some would call it a wasted life, but Sonny is the best friend I’ve ever had.
I work at the market now, selling leeks for a kind old woman there. When I come home each night, Sonny is sitting in an old, withered rocking chair that used to be his momma’s. He greets me and we make dinner of whatever I buy after work.
But tonight, I come home to a different scene. The boys, men now, who have tormented us to no end, stand outside our house, pounding on the door. I hear Sonny cry out, and I drop the loaves of bread I bought.
“Stop it!” I yell at the men. The one who had been beating the window turned to me.
“What now, dummy,” his deep voice called to my friend inside the house. “You need your girl to defend you?”
The other boys wrench open the door and pull Sonny out. He is scared, to say the least.
“Don’t hurt him!” I hear my own voice crack with fear as the men throw Sonny on the ground. They kick him, and he is helpless. I try to fight them away, but suddenly they stop. The wind picks up, and it sweeps around Sonny and me. My eyes flood with tears, and all I hear is the deep, booming, voice of their leader telling the others to leave.
Sonny and I lie there for a long time. When we finally get up, it is getting dark. I look for the bread, but the boys took it as they left. A blue splotch floats away from us.
--
My knees are weak from age; I kneel by Sonny’s bedside. He has been sick for weeks, and I don’t think he’ll see sunlight again. After they came to our house, the boys never bothered us again, but I don’t know why. Cold stars look down on us as I tip a glass of water to his lips. He won’t swallow.
“Sonny, don’t go away,” I whisper to him, voice cracking as the well-practiced notes slip from my dry lips. He smiles the same smile I saw the last time we saw his daddy, and with a pained breath, he speaks to me.
“I’m feeling so tired,” he tries to carry a tune his mother whispered to us once by the river; he lay his head down, and as I close his eyes, a butterfly the color of the sea flies through the window and rests on Sonny’s hand. As I finish his song, a breeze comes through the window and a second voice seems to join my own.
“And not all that strong.”
I don’t realize until much later that it was his mother’s, our mother’s, voice.
I hear a twig snap and the insect flies toward the source; there stands a boy of about my age, staring at me with a blank expression. His mouth is slightly agape as I ask him “who’re you?”
Suddenly, he closes his eyes and I hear him give a dry sob. I get up off my seat and wrap my arms around him. His expression changes suddenly. Gently smiling, he whispers a word in my ear.
“Sonny.”
--
A few months after I learn his name, I meet the rest of Sonny’s family. His father is rarely home, but his mother cares for him more than I’ve ever seen. We go to the river every week, Sonny, his mother, and me.
As the leaves around us crack and fall in the October breeze, Sonny and I dip our feet in the cold water. His mother plays in the grass with a butterfly. He doesn’t speak much to me, or anyone, and often some older boys from town like to try and make him. We usually feel safe with his mother.
Running up along the opposite bank, one of the boys stops when he sees Sonny.
“Hey, dummy,” he yells to our party. “Are you gonna say anything today?”
Sonny’s mother just looks at the boy before rounding Sonny and me up to leave. I notice a tear running down Sonny’s cheek.
--
It is a few years later, I am no longer a child, yet farther away from an adult than a baby. I watch Sonny hug his father, the sailor. Sonny always tells me of how his daddy saddles the waves halfway across the world.
Sonny finally lets go and the sailor strides toward a car that will carry him to the sea. Turning back to me, Sonny smiles a teary-eyed smile and we make our way to the small house overlooking the wild farm the used to be. It is home.
--
The sailor hasn’t come home yet, and it’s been another few years. Sonny and I go up to the river again, and we sit under a tree whose leaves are bursting to give us shade. But we don’t go to the river to cool our feet anymore.
Momma. A marble stone has the one word carved into it. Sonny laid the stone there when his mother passed on, but his daddy insisted that she be buried in a cemetery far away. We never go there to visit, because we don’t know what it’s like outside the town. I know Sonny misses his mother, and I hope his father comes home soon.
--
An adult. I am an adult, and I have lived with Sonny my entire life. Some would call it a wasted life, but Sonny is the best friend I’ve ever had.
I work at the market now, selling leeks for a kind old woman there. When I come home each night, Sonny is sitting in an old, withered rocking chair that used to be his momma’s. He greets me and we make dinner of whatever I buy after work.
But tonight, I come home to a different scene. The boys, men now, who have tormented us to no end, stand outside our house, pounding on the door. I hear Sonny cry out, and I drop the loaves of bread I bought.
“Stop it!” I yell at the men. The one who had been beating the window turned to me.
“What now, dummy,” his deep voice called to my friend inside the house. “You need your girl to defend you?”
The other boys wrench open the door and pull Sonny out. He is scared, to say the least.
“Don’t hurt him!” I hear my own voice crack with fear as the men throw Sonny on the ground. They kick him, and he is helpless. I try to fight them away, but suddenly they stop. The wind picks up, and it sweeps around Sonny and me. My eyes flood with tears, and all I hear is the deep, booming, voice of their leader telling the others to leave.
Sonny and I lie there for a long time. When we finally get up, it is getting dark. I look for the bread, but the boys took it as they left. A blue splotch floats away from us.
--
My knees are weak from age; I kneel by Sonny’s bedside. He has been sick for weeks, and I don’t think he’ll see sunlight again. After they came to our house, the boys never bothered us again, but I don’t know why. Cold stars look down on us as I tip a glass of water to his lips. He won’t swallow.
“Sonny, don’t go away,” I whisper to him, voice cracking as the well-practiced notes slip from my dry lips. He smiles the same smile I saw the last time we saw his daddy, and with a pained breath, he speaks to me.
“I’m feeling so tired,” he tries to carry a tune his mother whispered to us once by the river; he lay his head down, and as I close his eyes, a butterfly the color of the sea flies through the window and rests on Sonny’s hand. As I finish his song, a breeze comes through the window and a second voice seems to join my own.
“And not all that strong.”
I don’t realize until much later that it was his mother’s, our mother’s, voice.