Bartholomew’s Place

The man cradles his little boy in his arms.
Looks at the boy’s long lashes that shield eyes of a gas-flame blue that match his own.
Bartholomew.
Looks out the window at the night sky, lost in thought.
Lost.
Stroking the child’s blond wisps tenderly,
He wanders to parallel worlds,
To a place where he is, where Anne is.
There, it rains and they don’t get wet.

They laugh with delight at this, turning, turning together
With arms outstretched, faces to the sky.
Thunder.
Sighing back to the world of permeable auras,
He looks out the window at the sheet lightning.
The wilting sunflowers in the vase on the nightstand flutter,
Caressed by the breath of a wind whose source is not here.
The pattern of the vase makes him smile, a gentle, sad smile.
A gift, from Barty’s buddy’s mother,
It is decorated with paintings of pennies in motion.

Flipping, arcing through the air, vanishing.

At four years old, Barty had discovered the other places he could be.
He’d learned how to send the pennies from his tiny fingers
To other worlds, violating every law of the universe we know.
The man held one little warm palm in his right hand, and wanted never to let go.
Let go.
Sir, let the boy go.
It is time. I’m sorry.
The doctor gently took Bartholomew from his father’s arms.
Go home, sir. There is nothing left to be done.
Only a cursory autopsy, since we know the cause of death. The funeral home will be contacting you soon.
I am sorry.
He suddenly finds himself outside of the hospital, standing in the thunderstorm.
He turns his face to the sky,
Closes his eyes.
Fire surges through his soul, emanating from the warmth in his hand.
His right hand.
Filled with a fierce joy, he looks down at the small palm that is nestled there.
Daddy, Barty says.
We’re dry.
Dry.
Rain falls in torrents around them, haunting them. Gales of wind gust powerfully,
Encircling them, spiraling,
Yet they remain untouched, with not a hair blown out of place.
Yes, son, the man says, kneeling and embracing his child. We are dry.
But this is not quite true,
Because in this place of marvel where he is and Barty is too,
Tears, he finds, can leave the face quite damp.