A Bright Spot

“Is that you whistling, Mom?” Nick’s voice held a boy-shimmer of hope and wonder. His small question sent a dart of youthful joy into my weary heart. I listened for a laugh or a smiling response and heard nothing.

“Oh,” he responded to what must have been a lackluster comment from “Mom.” He gave a cosmic shrug and resumed scraping his skateboard across the concrete patio. I had been holding my breath as I shamelessly listened in to this family interaction.

“Interaction,” is an odd, modern-day, psychobabble word, but very descriptive of their rather sterile mode of communication. They are the next door neighbors and the “next door” part of the description is not quite accurate. Our houses are separated by a swatch of patchy grass, a hedge and their driveway. On rare occasions they cut down their towering hedge before it topples and then I can sometimes look into their kitchen and watch their lips move as they mumble their dour and passionless requests and responses.

This morning’s whistling episode is noteworthy because it was cheerful. It was an expression of human warmth and feeling. Whoever created the whistled song transcended the normal interaction and pulled us all into a realm of color and light. For a about thirty seconds, the sun was brighter this morning.