A Busy Little Boy

I pulled my son closer to me, and he nestled up to my shoulder. I sighed¼


“He’s quite a busy little boy,” the cashier at the gas station commented as my

family walked into the small store to pay for the gas and purchase some snacks

for the long trip home. Indianapolis, Indiana, seemed such a long way from the

dazzling, hot sand of Destin, Florida, for our family. A long way for all of us,

except 6 year old Carson, who didn’t seem to mind. “A busy little boy” is exactly

what you could call him, and he welcomed the road trip. Everything fascinated

my little boys mind. From cars outside the window, to birds flying in V shapes,

his mind was captured by it all. I rounded everyone up and corralled my family in

the car. I plopped down in the front seat, changed gears from Park to Drive in

our Suburban and glanced in my rear view mirror, and that is when I saw it. The

empty car seat.


“Carson’s missing.” I whispered. The family of now 5 exploded out of the car

and began belting out his name. I ran into the store and alerted the cashier. She

almost jumped over the counter, then thought better of it, and slammed through

the door separating the counter instead. We all scoured the premises of the

small station, with no result. We pushed open the swinging front door of the

station, and a noise filled my ears with such a sense of dread I wanted to cover

them with my hands. The interstate. Carson loved the interstate. The debris

floating in the median, litter accenting the sides, and the endless stretch of land

on each side, it all fascinated him. Rain began gliding out of the clouds as the

sun’s last rays were shrouded by looming dark clouds. It was pitch black outside.

Without a second thought to my own safety, I began pelting towards the sound

of tires on wet pavement and engines screaming as they raced on the interstate

below. I turned down the exit ramp, feet pounding, and there, in the median,

through the sheets of rain, I saw my son. Alive. How he had managed to cross

three lanes of traffic in the gathering dusk, I will never know, but Carson had

done it.


I cleared the ramp and slammed on my “feet brakes” as cars sped by me.

“Please don’t see me and run, Carson.” I breathed, because I knew if he saw

me, he would run towards me, arms stretched wide. I looked both ways and

stealthily crossed the interstate. Safely on the median, I said his name. He

looked up at me, and a smile beamed like the passing car lights. He raced into

my arms and said,

“Daddy! I’m helping clean up!” And yes he was. Destroyed tire parts and empty

beer bottles were stacked neatly in their own piles. I laughed into his hair.

“Yes, son. You sure are.”