Comfort & Joy

“Everyone said you were imaginary anyway. ”

“I guess I was then. I’m not now. ”

He frowns. “You mean . . . ”

“I’m here, Bobby. ”

Hope flashes across his eyes. The quelling of it is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. “I ain’t falling for it. I don’t wanna be crazy anymore. ”

“I know what you mean. ”

“Quit trying to trick me. ” His voice catches on that. I can see how hard he is trying to be sane and grown up. And how much he wants to believe in me again.

“I know it’s impossible,” I whisper. “And totally Looney Tunes, but will you trust in me one more time?”

“How?”

“Just come here. ”

He shakes his head. “I’m scared. ”

I smile. That kind of honesty will save us in this crazy situation. “Me, too. Please? Believe in me one more time. ” I can’t help remembering my dreamed-of Christmas morning where I said the same thing to him.

Slowly, he gets up and comes toward me. When he’s almost close enough to take my hand he stops. He doesn’t reach for me. “Are you real?”

“That’s the first thing you ever said to me, remember? Then, I didn’t know what you meant, I didn’t understand. But I’m real now, Bobby. Believe me. ”

He won’t touch me, but I see that hope come back into his eyes. “You broke your promise. ”

“Yes, I did. And I’m sorry for that. ”

“How come you have a cane?”

“That’s a long story. ”

“I waited for you to come back. Every day . . . ” His voice breaks. I can see how hard he’s trying not to cry.

“I have a present for you,” I say softly.

“Really?”

I reach into my pocket, half expecting it to be empty.

It’s not. My fingers coil around the cool, smooth bit of carved stone. I pull it out and hand it to him. The white arrowhead looks like a tiny heart in my palm.

Bobby gasps. “It’s white. My mommy always promised me . . . ”

I move slowly toward him and drop to my knees in the dirt. “She showed me where it was, Bobby. On Christmas Eve night while you were sleeping. ”

“Really?”

I nod. “Sometimes the magic is real, I guess. ”

Tears glaze his eyes. I know how long he has waited for an adult to say these words

to him. He takes the arrowhead from me, closing his fingers tightly around it.

“I knew it,” he whispers. “I’m not crazy. ”