An Impossible Goodbye

The moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting shadows that moved like figures across the room, lingering in the corners. The house was still, too quiet.

A shrill scream yanked her from sleep. Heart pounding, drenched in sweat, she sat bolt upright in the darkness. She turned on the lamp on her nightstand, and the shadows disappeared.

Had she screamed? Or was it a dream?

She fumbled for the remote. The muted television blinked silently in the corner, frozen on the image of a woman running, mouth open in terror. Some late-night thriller she'd dozed off watching.

She lay back down and stared at the ceiling. Her skin was still clammy. The silence in the house stretched long and thin. She closed her eyes. Visions danced through her memories and slowly, gently rocked her to sleep.

In the morning, soft, golden light filtered through the curtains. She turned her head slowly and listened. Nothing except the faint chirping of the birds greeted the day.

Pushing the blanket aside, she rose and walked down the hallway toward her son's room. His favorite stuffed monster, surrounded by superheroes, stood guard on the shelf.

The bed was empty. The covers lay rumpled, undisturbed.

"Mikey?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper. The room remained silent, too quiet.

She opened the bathroom door, expecting his usual catastrophes, with water and soapy bubbles dripping everywhere, but the room was empty.

Her voice sharpened. "Mikey?"

No response.

She moved faster now, checking behind the doors, under the bed, in the hall closet.

Downstairs, the kitchen looked exactly as it had yesterday. The cereal box was still on the counter. The bowl beside it was clean and dry, waiting. His favorite cartoon spoon rested beside it.

Panic rose like a wave. Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled.

She threw open the front door and ran barefoot into the yard, repeatedly calling his name. She looked down the street. She peered behind the garage. Nothing.

No sound but the wind rustling the trees, a car passing, and the chirping birds.

She called the police. Her voice cracked as she explained. "He's four years old. I—I don't know where he went. I don't know—"

The dispatcher answered gently, too gently. "Ma'am, I'm so sorry. But without evidence of a crime, we can't open a missing person's case for forty-eight hours. If anything changes, call us back immediately. We have a car patrolling. They'll keep an eye out for him, just in case."

She hung up before they finished speaking. She methodically walked through the house, opening every closet and door and calling his name.

By nightfall, she sat curled on the couch, the blanket around her shoulders like armor. Her eyes were red, her cheeks stained with tears, and she stared at nothing.

"Please, God —" Her voice was hoarse. "Please, just bring him back to me. I'll do anything. Anything."

Sleep overtook her in fits, pulling her under like a tide.

In her dream, he was in the backyard, barefoot in the grass, wearing that old cowboy hat. He giggled, waving his plastic gun and watching the bubbles rise into the sky.

"Don't cry, Mommy," he said, beaming. "I'm right here."

She tried to reach him — tried to run — but her legs wouldn't move. She woke up sobbing. The quiet returned.

She drifted to her desk, hands heavy, feet dragging. The mail sat untouched. She shuffled through it without looking—hospital forms, sympathy cards, unopened envelopes.

Then, the small wooden plaque. A photograph of a little boy with blonde hair and ocean-blue eyes — minus his signature cowboy hat. But the smile was there — a grin that could melt the world.

She traced the brass plate beneath it with shaking fingers.

Michael Cason

1977 – 1981

She pressed the plaque to her chest, holding it tight.

"Mommy loves you," she whispered, as the moonlight crept in through the blinds. "Always."

And in the distance, the wind stirred the chimes softly — like a child's laughter just out of reach. Another day — another night — but she still couldn't say that final goodbye.