CNF: My Prayer

by John Van Dreal

 

[Editor’s Note: This piece is part of the “Topical” series, with each piece solely submitted to and chosen by the Final Reader Pietra Dunmore.]

 

The shadow grew.

The first time I saw it, I was six. It was in the eye of a blue belly lizard as its breathing became shallow. I was the reason—I and a blood-stained silver ball bearing, the projectile of my wrist rocket slingshot.

I saw it again when I was ten. This time in the eyes of dozens of birds. Again, I was the reason—I and a bombardment of small lead pellets, the projectiles of my Crossman air rifle.

Again, in the eyes of rabbits and squirrels, the victims of my adolescent rage, cloaked by my passion for hunting. All victims of my .22 rifle, 12-gauge shotgun, and small-game arrowheads.

When I was nineteen, I looked down the sight of my deer rifle, directly into the eyes of blacktail buck—coal black, fully dilated to the lids, outlined with lashes—two blinks as he looked back up my muzzle. This time, I did not see it. The eyes were wide with curiosity and poised energy. His head pivoted from side to side on its lengthy neck swivel as he made out my figure in the brush. Then he turned and walked a few feet, lowering his head to eat forbs, mast, and grass as he maintained one cautious eye on me. I was no threat at that point. I lowered the rifle and sat, considering my change of mind, my hunter’s passion surrendering to my heart.

I saw it again in the photographs of dying soldiers, shared by a South African friend, just returned from the war in Angola. I was twenty-one.

A few years later in my grandmother’s eyes, although I ignored what I saw, preferring denial. She looked panicked, trying to tell me something, pointing, explaining. The dullness of her gaze too opaque to reflect the assortment of lights within the ICU.

When I was twenty-nine, I saw it in the eyes of a ten-year-old girl taking her last breaths on an elementary school playground, her heart failing from disease.

In the years that passed, it was everywhere I looked, then nowhere. Creeping in through failed relationships, loss of faith, distrust of hope, and the angst that accompanies the responsibility of safely raising kids. Then it disappeared again as I glimpsed my fortieth year and caught my second breath.

But the shadow returned, dulling the eyes of friends, my cousin, my aunt, two cats, my son’s dog, my father-in-law.

A year ago, I saw it in the eyes of a man living under the steps of a bridge near my home. It startled me at first, then encouraged me to ask him if he was OK. I watched him stand, lower his head, and walk away, keeping one lightless eye on me. I wanted to follow, stop the shadow, or at least see if the eyes had been telling—but what would I do?

Eight months ago, I saw it on news channels, in the eyes of a black man, his neck squeezed under the knee of another man sworn to protect him. That vision, juxtaposed with images of the elderly attacked by plague and cocooned by tubes, tangled blankets, respirators, and medical machinery—their eyes emptied of light.

The shadow . . . it grows, creeping forward like my age. I carefully examine the eyes of my parents, my friends, my dog, now sick with cancer. My watch is anything but accepting or “used to it.” I’m desperate to find light instead of shadow. I consider avoiding truth—ignoring the signs. But I’m a realist, long ago having forfeited faith and promise to living in the moment.

Still, my prayers have increased with this slow, gnawing fear. For my family, my friends, the refrain is simple:

Please keep the dullness away from them. Give them a stay. Hasn’t my karma debt been reimbursed? For the lizard, the birds, the rabbits, and the slain relationships?

Please keep it from their eyes. Please keep the shadow from my dog.

 

A third-generation artist, John Van Dreal began painting and writing at age seven. He earned his formal education in Fine Arts at Humboldt State University and Brigham Young University and educational psychology at Brigham Young University, maintaining careers in both fields while writing. A musician and award-winning artist with work featured in collections throughout the Pacific Northwest, Van Dreal uses his creative vision and accessible writing style to explore both the darker and quirkier sides of human behavior. He resides in Salem, Oregon and is currently composing his first novel.

 

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