Tadpoles

On long car rides I was never able to sleep. I used to sit quietly and stare out the window, wondering about birds, clouds, grass, trees and all sorts of things both seen and unseen. I had quite an imagination, in all facets of my life really, but especially when on car trips.

I would day dream constantly.

I would see a place and imagine what it was like to live there, think up stories and people and go through a day there. I would see a wide open space and think of the adventures I could have, or what this whole place looked like before people started building houses, towns and freeways…

I imagined myself as a bird, as a wildcat cave dweller in the highlands, a scorpion in the rocks. I thought about sailors on the ocean or boaters on the lakes. I looked into other people’s cars and made up stories about where they were going and why. We drove around a lot back then, but there was always something new to think about. Sometimes I would even revisit places or people I had made up or imagined on a completely separate car trip.

Whenever it would rain, I would stare at the rain droplets rushing past my window. I always thought they looked like tadpoles. I would imagine that they were swimming over our car with their families, maybe on adventures of their own. They would swim past my gaze and then disappear. I worried for them sometimes, because what if they ran out of space to swim on the car? Would they fall onto the road? Would they get squished?

It’s silly to admit it now, I know this, but I think those tadpoles were the one figment of my imagination that has stuck with me the most. I don’t know why. I’m not as good these days of imagining myself as a bird, or even on a plane looking down. I can’t think about people in other cars or in other towns. But whenever it rains, I still think about those tadpoles. I’ve never admitted my thoughts to anyone else. Maybe there’s something to it. Maybe it’s some deeper meaning that lies behind everything. Maybe I can learn something or come to some revelation.

Maybe not.

I used to think that everything in the world had a point to it—a purpose of some sort that would lead me to believe in a greater good for all. Used to. That was up until my first born son, Charlie, was hurt in a car accident. He was twelve at the time. His middle school basketball team was playing an away game for the playoffs. He was riding with another family because I couldn’t get off of work early enough to get him there in time for the warm-up routine. I would still make it for the opening tip-off.

Turns out we never made it to the game anyway. The car he was riding in got sideswiped by someone who ran a light. The side of the car Charlie was sitting on got the blunt of the impact. He was rushed to the hospital, his mother, our younger son, Jack (eight at the time), and I rushed there too.

He was hurt badly and they did all they could for him. He slipped into a coma that he never woke up from. The day we lost Charlie was the hardest day of my life.

You see? I used to believe that everything in the world had a point to it. A purpose of some sort. I used to believe in deeper meaning behind everything—every action, every word, everything that happened. And then Charlie died. And soon everything became just what it was. He was gone. We were here. I went to work. Took Jack to school. Came home and ate dinner with my wife and son. We lived our lives. There was no deeper meaning to anything; no spiritual interpretation of things like rain on a window pane.

It’s been three years.

We took a trip last month up to the mountains. A friend had a cabin there and we needed some time away—just the three of us. It rained down on us as my wife drove. I rode in the passenger seat and watched Jack out of the corner of my eye every now and then. He looked dreamy, staring off out the window.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, buddy?” I asked him.

He was quiet for a moment as he thought about the question. Even as he answered, he didn’t take his gaze away from wherever he was looking.

“You know, Dad?” He said, “I used to think that the rain looked like tears when it hit windows. Charlie… he always told me it wasn’t rain. Rain was too sad of a thing and you shouldn’t always be sad when it rains.”

“Oh?” I asked, quietly.

“He always told me they looked more like fish swimming along in a school… But said that because they had tails instead of fins that they were really just tadpoles.” He was quiet and I was quiet. I took a soft breath. “Tadpoles aren’t as sad as tears, you know.”

Silence fell over the car for just the briefest moment. The rain pattered softly on the windows and I watched Jack as he watched the raindrops. And then, in the softest, simplest voice he spoke again.

“It was raining the day Charlie died, I think.”