McBain Megan

Megan McBain - First Place Winner - Teens: Fiction
Cornwall Public Library 2015 Annual Writing Contest

THE ANGEL CHILD

A small boy stood on tip-toe and peered out the gritty one-pane window at his fenced in
backyard, which looked extremely favourable on this especially gusty autumn day. He ached to wander
out into the soft grass and play with his friends, and feel alive. The boy of six years couldn't describe
how it is the spiralling wind that thrills him and gives him the energy to become a marching soldier. He ,
couldn't say how the tickle of a pesky ant on his forearm could intrigue him so deeply that nothing else
would remain of interest; all he knew was that it was better outside than inside, and he would rather be
out there than in here. Besides, his nature friends were waiting for him, and couldn't mother see that?
Couldn't father know? Like a flash the child darted out the door leaving a crevice between the door and
its pane and an authoritative figure in his wake, faintly calling after him, "Gabel Gabriel, you come back
here." However, the child had spied his favourite tire swing which in its irresistibility overrode all
barriers of good judgment. Dashing across the grass, he planted one foot in the centre of the swing and
hiked the other around to the top triumphantly, ignoring baby tremors of guilt for disobeying his
mother. Usually Gabe was the kindest of children; solitary though inclusive, seemingly peaceful yet
inquisitive, however, he knew that the Backyard had no major consequences, and whatever price he
was forced to pay for his insolence would be worth the pleasure. All that mattered was Now and the
beauty which presented itself to him through scenery and sensations. Gabe felt, more than saw, the
fading, dusty smells of autumn and the branchy tree canvases displaying an assortment of old leaves,
remembering their prime. The child truly experienced the moment, sensing every detail. in a way that
only a select few are privileged to partake in. With the momentum of the swing a sudden grin as wide as
the sea broke across the boy's lovely miss-matched features. He laughed loudly, strangely, and let out a
Whoop! It felt so delightful, he "whooped" once more for good measure. For the child was ecstatic with
pleasure. through a mixture of discernment and innocence. A gift of Gabe's: to weed out loveliness
from decay, and often find it in the decay. The secret to happiness is contentment wherever you are.

You must understand, the backyard was quite in the way of disrepair. The grass really wasn't as
soft as Gabe often imagined - in fact, it was rather brown and overgrown in most areas, and it insisted
to grow especially strongly beneath the back porch, of which paint peeled in small areas. Hedges lining
the fencing around the minimal yard began to resemble a tamed wilderness, of which Mother could only
sigh and shake her head at. Who had time for mere yard work when occupied with a full time trade and
a child to raise? Since Gabriel's father had left to serve the US Navy, times were tougher than ever. To
get by was to focus on priority - Gabe and work. To love Gabe was to support his naivety and keep him
frivolous and carefree, to shield him. For Mother's love of her child, she long ago resolved never to
reveal to her precious boy the constant danger that Father was in. Then Mother swiped her hand as to
physically brush aside her internal unrest. Collecting her thoughts and storing them safely away, the
mother corralled her child with a gesturing arm to return to the quaint, slightly aged house for supper.
Gabe obliged her without restraint as previous ecstasy turned to wistfulness in his eyes. When Mother
spoke of perhaps, a treat, his attentions focused anew on his certain grumbly tummy, which no six year
old can ever ignore.
Snowflakes. Over one million. Ever so cold, flakes of snow.
Purposeless, perfectly directionless; wandering to their own whims, Inquiring after separate
callings with the slightest of interests. They fell in waves like disordered troops, eventually all joining the
great mass, winters army, if you will. And though Gabe could only concoct a simple, childish description
of snowfall if he tried, he was naturally gifted with acute senses to perceive the drifting snow in an
otherworldly way. He lay stomach skywards in barely one centimeter of snow, arms and legs
outstretched like a star. This gentle snow enraptured him and mesmerized him, loving his attention
dearly, prizing it as the object of its existence. Should he later study Vivaldi's Winter, he might connect

that the loveliness of the symphony and his experience matched to a tee. However, regardless of what
the ivory flakes may symbolize or how beauteous they were to behold, they so relaxed him as to allow
him to remember. Gabe had unwound the clock and he now floated in memory - a recent memory
dated several months ago - by the docks, in the summer's heat, with Father.
The wide body of water accompanied Father and Gabriel as they strolled side by side down a
pathway toward the loading dock. Today was Gabe's birthday and he wanted nothing more intensely
than to spend the day with Father, the epitome of strength and kindness. An ease, a sort of gentleness
was often attributed to Father unknowingly by all, though he was widely acknowledged for his love of
family: his wife and child. They, in return, loved him passionately back, like a child growing into maturity
loves freedom. To be sure, such a rare occurrence as this afternoon was special to Gabe, and he would
always remember the serenity he felt in the presence of his greatest friend. The two were proud of each
other; Father of Son, Son of Father. They made a lovely pair. And so, with great flourish and suspense,
Father hinted at the surprise he detained for his anxious son of freshly six years.
"Guess, my son, at what I have in store for you," Father smiled. "Spare no extremity."
Gabe pondered the request for several minutes, for he wanted to seem mature. He was now six,
after all. However, Gabe hadn't asked for anything which left him with a deficiency of birthday gift ideas.
Oh, how he so wanted to impress Father! Nonetheless, when the pondering grew unbearably long and
he couldn't think of anything especially exciting to guess, he merely announced last year's gift:
""A wooden figurine?"
Father shook his head knowingly with a glimmer of a grin.

Looking for inspiration, Gabe spied a scraggly mutt scavenging for food among several vendors.
Taming the idea of a pet down a little bit he asked, "A rat?" He'd always thought them interesting
creatures, except when they got into the cellar and at the potatoes, and Mother's canned foods.
"Think bigger, perhaps a form of transportation, something to store your special things. Hm?
You're well raised, you'll guess it. r know you will. Why, look just ahead!" Father's eyes widened and his
eyebrows climbed, wrinkling his forehead as he feigned surprise. "Just ahead, just about the bend! Well,
run ahead and have a look, why don't you, son!"
Gabe caught his breath and trembled with giddiness at the suspense. In all honesty, the day
should have been painted in watercolour, with soft greens for the vegetation and lovely blues and
beiges all around, for though those things added atmosphere and beauty, they lacked importance.
Father's face, however, would be exemplified in the sharpest of details with a precise black pen, and so
would Mother's face and the incredible surprise she toted beside her as she approached from around
the curve in the path. Gabe trotted forward, in all his maturity not wanting the moment to end, yet
facing intense curiosity that seized every thought, every whisper of a guess. With a nudge from Father
he ran ahead and beheld his birthday present, the very best of its kind, a perfectly blue bicycle the shade
of the deep sea! Oh, the flawlessness! Gabe marvelled from the moment he perceived the first arches of
his gift, the scent of new rubber; and he loved it wildly_ He took a moment to embrace Father, kiss
Mother on the cheek before seizing the smooth, black handlebars and pulling a blank. He'd no idea how
to steer the lovely thing!
Fondly, Gabe remembered Father's gentle touch on the base of his back to steady and propel
him. He recalled the shock of the cool breeze streamlining his eager face. The gleeful freedom, the
feeling of his wide eyes widening further. However, the innocent child didn't see his parents' grins

dissolve as was habitual as he rode away, or the deep, underlying sadness in their eyes, and so this was
omitted from memory.
Now, the memory succumbed to an immediate sensory perturbance as Gabe's limbs felt the
snow mouth his snowsuit covered legs, arms and torso. Apparently the snow liked his flavour because it
continued to savour Gabe, not releasing him from its frigid bite. Still, Gabe wasn't completely
disconnected from the memory and impressively a lack of confusion didn't ensue as streaming sunlight
and balmy weather encountered below zero temperatures and a child's bodily imprint in the fresh
patches of snow. Gabe tromped back to the door through winter's first greeting, in response to the
evening's fast absolving dimness that warned of hideous things unbeknownst, yet sensed, by little
children.
My, the banister feels cool on my fingertips! And what a delightful scuffing sound thick boots make on
rough entrance mats! Echoey, echo, echo, warm little toes slapping cool tile resound excitingly in tall
corridors. Fill me up, Jill up my lungs, watch as I inhale the familiar smell, my smell, oj mildew and dryer
sheets and burning. And burning? How peculiar. Mysterious shadowy parlor, tones of olive green and
mud brown. Mud, like that I know from the summer. Mud, like a melancholy mood. Mud, like Mother's
murky, stooped figure on the couch, almost dissolving into the shadows.
Gabriel had never seen Mother like this before. Of course, when Father left to serve in the war,
she became less vibrant, and sadly her personality had receded in certain ways, mimicking her graying
hair line. However, this was different and undeniably important, as this was to be Gabe's first
experience with grief. Certainly, six years hadn't passed without their fair share of sadness. Knees had
been scraped. Trips, cancelled; pets, lost. And though his experiences resulting in sadness felt traumatic,
(for sadness is part of griefs family), the two emotions are not identical. Grief is the state of being
where shock is paralytic and immaturity breeds confusion. Gabriel observed the brokenness on

Mother's face, the tears slipping from her understanding eyes and the attempted smile for his own sake
that resulted in a squinty grimace. He didn't understand the why or the how, but Mother saw his mature
eyes and solemn face as he placed one tender hand on her crossed knee, and she ashamedlv sought
comfort from the child who looked so intelligent and confident, like he could govern the world with the
blink of an eyelid. And so, we find two humans whose roles have been reversed at the expense of the
most innocent. In trust Mother, clutching the fabric of her skirt in one hand and her child's paw in the
other, passed on what the somber man with the heavy knock at the door had burdened onto her.
The child felt overcome. Dizziness fogged his brain, and the tears, they didn't come. Suddenly he
no longer felt protected by the walls around him that once seemed so sturdy and solid. He felt unsure of
himself and greater still exposed to a new, ugly realm. Mother's touch didn't register nor comfort,
though her sobs rang in his ears as she held him hard in her lap, wrapping her thick hair around Gabe's
head, almost smothering him. His tears, though - they didn't come.
Watch with me, the couple unawares before us. They huddle together in the most natural way
but the sorrow the adult expresses the child doesn't seem to share. In fact, we are nearly disturbed by
the blankness we see on the child's face - as if his skin refuses to contort. You and I, we know that the
mother's name is Lorna Filler and child's name is Gabriel Filler and the husband's name used to be
Patrick Filler. We know that the husband no longer lives. In a sense we are lucky, for we know more of
the characters than they know of themselves. We know that this is the very child who has a deep
admiration for mere telephone poles, for their conductivity and for the calls he can make to his aunts
and uncles because of them. look closer: do you see the scar on his forearm? Gabe gravely earned it by
squeezing through the backyard fence for the perfect violet lilacs in the just beyond that Mother so
treasured. The cut was deep; Mother's smile was worth it.

With fresh eyes we now look again at Gabriel. How inexplicable was this child. How supreme.

Gabe clapped his hands over his ears to strain Mother's distress to a dull monotone. He finally squeezed
his eyes shut very tightly, like a python its prey. Father was dead. Therefore, he must be dead also.
Now marked the start of the end of the very best. Something vital- a rarity in Gabe's being-
shifted under the immense strain and threatened to capsize. It did not, however: but all was close to
being lost in those first few hours. Most of the gift was indeed tragically compromised, lost to the battle
of his soul, honouring that which was already physically lost. That blessed child, born to a host of angels,
greedily traded his inner tranquility for the pain of the world.
Late one winter afternoon several weeks later, as Gabe gazed out through the parlor's great,
large window that faced the backyard, he made friends with Apathy. The world was brilliant,
tantalizingly white, but desire lacked in the lazy creature willingly suppressed in the house. Tilting his
head ever so slightly, Gabe carelessly observed the shed in the back of the yard. Suddenly he caught a
glimpse of glory in a dear pair of fiery red work boots just peeking out of the two feet of snow. They
meant something! For the shortest instant he remembered - everything lovely, desirable. Then he felt
tragically, hopelessly sad again as the trance passed, leaving a faint smear on his weakened heart for it
to be remembered by - just enough to know it was real, and that now it was gone. That it was lost ..
So the child pressed his chin into the backs of his hands, and the tears, they now came, and with
the bitterness of loss he uttered one word that encompassed his entire livelihood, including his sorrow.
From the depths of his being rose a flood of emotions so intricate and confusing he thought he might
faint ... but amidst the storm and the child's dampened cheeks and his tired, ever so tired eyes, a single

word was perceived by the junebug hiding in the window's curtain. Wires may have been crossed, syllables misplaced, however I was told it sounded something like this:
"Good-bye."
To Father. To perfection. To stillness of heart.
Good-bye.