upside-down photo she was studying. “Kirin is not Amir, Maa.” Her voice was flat.
Kirin looked down at the picture of the little boy sitting beneath a Christmas tree. He had always thought Amir looked like Nani’s picture of the Child Krishna—the same long dark curls and round dark eyes, the same grave smile. Except his skin wasn’t blue of course.
“Amir woke us up early,” his mother was saying. “He was just a tiny boy, but he knew it was a special day. We could hear him singing ‘Jingle Bells’ in his crib.” She smiled, her eyes misty and tender. “He was always so happy.”
Yeah, yeah, Kirin wanted to say. Amir was a little saint, we know. And then you got him up and got him dressed and it had snowed, so you and he went to the playground over on 56th Street, while Dad stuffed the turkey.
“I got him up,” his mother said, “and I put on his red corduroy overalls with a little shirt that had tiny Santas all over it. It had snowed overnight, so while your father stuffed the turkey, Amir and I decided to go for walk. I bundled him up, and we walked over to the little playground on 56th Street.”
She flipped the page of the album. “See there he is. In his stroller.”
He and Nani obligingly bent over the photos that followed, examining each one, as though they hadn’t seen them all every year, over and over.
Then his mother turned the page to the last photo in the album. “And this is the last picture I took.”
Amir was sitting in one of the playground’s baby swings, his legs dangling in their snowsuit, his cheeks rosy and dimpled, his dark eyes shining beneath a red hat with a white pom-pom.
“I meant to just turn away for a second. The wind caught his little hat, and I ran to catch it. It kept flying away from me, though—I kept running after it— When I turned around, he wasn’t there. The swing was still moving, but he—”
Something inside Kirin ached at the break in his mother’s voice. He would take away her pain if he knew how. Every Christmas for as long as he could remember, he had wanted to comfort her. But he couldn’t. He was invisible to her again, now that he had served his purpose as a witness to her ceremony of grief.
He heard again his grown-up brother’s voice: Find me. That’s your job.
But that had been just a dream. His grandmother thought dreams were as real as the waking world, but he didn’t believe that. A dream was just a bunch of fears and wishes and leftover thoughts. His unconscious talking to him, the way Jung said. Not real.
He pretended to study the last photo of his brother. Then he leaned closer, seeing something he had never noticed before. Behind the swings, an open umbrella was tipped over on the ground, its spokes caught in the chain-link fence.
Kirin pointed at the picture. “What’s that doing there?”
His mother shut the album as though she hadn’t heard.
“That’s Richard’s umbrella,” Nani said. “He’s had it all these years.”
“Richard? You mean the homeless guy? He was there?”
His mother stroked her hand back and forth across the album cover, as if it were something alive she was petting. “I suspected him for a while,” she said tonelessly. “He was just a kid, but there was something not right about him, even then. But the police said they cleared him. They said it wasn’t him.”
“Of course it wasn’t Richard,” Nani said. “He’s a good man. I ask him for dinner over and over, but he never comes.”
His mother let out a surprised breath of laughter. “Oh Maa, I should hope not. The man gives me the creeps. Even if the police were certain it wasn’t him, I’ve always wondered. He looks at me as though he knows something, something terrible. Every time, I have to walk by him, I want to scream at him to tell me the truth.” The soft look on her face was gone now, and two dark creases pulled her brows together. “For goodness sake, Maa, you see the good in people where no good exists. That
Kirin looked down at the picture of the little boy sitting beneath a Christmas tree. He had always thought Amir looked like Nani’s picture of the Child Krishna—the same long dark curls and round dark eyes, the same grave smile. Except his skin wasn’t blue of course.
“Amir woke us up early,” his mother was saying. “He was just a tiny boy, but he knew it was a special day. We could hear him singing ‘Jingle Bells’ in his crib.” She smiled, her eyes misty and tender. “He was always so happy.”
Yeah, yeah, Kirin wanted to say. Amir was a little saint, we know. And then you got him up and got him dressed and it had snowed, so you and he went to the playground over on 56th Street, while Dad stuffed the turkey.
“I got him up,” his mother said, “and I put on his red corduroy overalls with a little shirt that had tiny Santas all over it. It had snowed overnight, so while your father stuffed the turkey, Amir and I decided to go for walk. I bundled him up, and we walked over to the little playground on 56th Street.”
She flipped the page of the album. “See there he is. In his stroller.”
He and Nani obligingly bent over the photos that followed, examining each one, as though they hadn’t seen them all every year, over and over.
Then his mother turned the page to the last photo in the album. “And this is the last picture I took.”
Amir was sitting in one of the playground’s baby swings, his legs dangling in their snowsuit, his cheeks rosy and dimpled, his dark eyes shining beneath a red hat with a white pom-pom.
“I meant to just turn away for a second. The wind caught his little hat, and I ran to catch it. It kept flying away from me, though—I kept running after it— When I turned around, he wasn’t there. The swing was still moving, but he—”
Something inside Kirin ached at the break in his mother’s voice. He would take away her pain if he knew how. Every Christmas for as long as he could remember, he had wanted to comfort her. But he couldn’t. He was invisible to her again, now that he had served his purpose as a witness to her ceremony of grief.
He heard again his grown-up brother’s voice: Find me. That’s your job.
But that had been just a dream. His grandmother thought dreams were as real as the waking world, but he didn’t believe that. A dream was just a bunch of fears and wishes and leftover thoughts. His unconscious talking to him, the way Jung said. Not real.
He pretended to study the last photo of his brother. Then he leaned closer, seeing something he had never noticed before. Behind the swings, an open umbrella was tipped over on the ground, its spokes caught in the chain-link fence.
Kirin pointed at the picture. “What’s that doing there?”
His mother shut the album as though she hadn’t heard.
“That’s Richard’s umbrella,” Nani said. “He’s had it all these years.”
“Richard? You mean the homeless guy? He was there?”
His mother stroked her hand back and forth across the album cover, as if it were something alive she was petting. “I suspected him for a while,” she said tonelessly. “He was just a kid, but there was something not right about him, even then. But the police said they cleared him. They said it wasn’t him.”
“Of course it wasn’t Richard,” Nani said. “He’s a good man. I ask him for dinner over and over, but he never comes.”
His mother let out a surprised breath of laughter. “Oh Maa, I should hope not. The man gives me the creeps. Even if the police were certain it wasn’t him, I’ve always wondered. He looks at me as though he knows something, something terrible. Every time, I have to walk by him, I want to scream at him to tell me the truth.” The soft look on her face was gone now, and two dark creases pulled her brows together. “For goodness sake, Maa, you see the good in people where no good exists. That
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