The Back Yard

The boy stood in a moonlit backyard, the dogs playing in the snow. He was only vaguely aware of their antics. He is short and out of shape, with a pale face framed by dark hair. His hands are in his pockets. He was staring up into the stars, their cold brilliance a fascination. He is thinking about God. He is eleven years old.

He thinks that the snow is like people, glistening in the moonlight, and the moonlight is the smile of God, and the stars are the eyes of the countless angels. He dreams that God's love is soft and cool, and all that love asks is that he be a good boy. The boy loves God, and he wants to be good.

It occurs to him, as he shivers from a gust of wind, that he is not good. He may never have done anything bad, but that isn't good. Good things are what you do, not simply what you don't. He worries that his 'goodness' is a sham, because he has never been given that moment to shine, that crucial choice where you rise or fall. He believes that he will choose right.

The dogs come up to him, tails wagging. He leads them inside.

"Take off your shoes," his mother snaps.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and takes them off.

"Look here, look! You tracked in snow, and it's making mud in my kitchen. You always do this. You don't seem to think about anything. Clean this up, and go to bed."

He cleans his mess and goes to bed, heart heavy.