Little J and the Amazing Technicolor Backpack

Ode to the Daily Miracles

I waited in the car rental line at the Orlando airport, a bit blurry on three hours sleep and with that telltale shoulder droop that whines, “I’m on a business trip, not a vacation.” My mind was already diverging in random directions, making it easy to lose focus altogether and zone out. There I was, caught in the shuffle of suitcases and anonymous pairs of feet trickling through the elastic rope barriers like clumsy salmon swimming upstream.

It was there, in that interminable line, where a beautiful play of life transpired in microcosm…

 

She was young, the mother, probably in her mid-thirties. Rolling alongside her were two huge suitcases, fully occupying each of her hands. She stood crooked to keep her large purse from sliding off a shoulder. Around and about her, like little planets in some erratic force of gravity, moved four young boys, her sons.

The oldest son was Marcus (it’s easy to learn kids’ names, as they yell at each other in great frequency and volume). Marcus was probably 10 years old and large for his age. He towered over his brothers, and by the way he walked around, this advantage he not only recognized, but savored. Like any healthy 10-year-old, Marcus was obviously bored waiting in line, and getting anxious to amuse himself.

The youngest brother, sprawled out on the carpet and lost in his own world of superhero action figures, was Misio (Mee-see-oh). I’d guess Misio was four-years old. Unlike Marcus, Misio was just a wee one, so small that when he ran it looked as if his legs churned with no knees in the middle. Misio was the kind of boy who makes women of all ages stop in their tracks and squeal at his cartoon cuteness.

Also there, much less pronounced and never venturing too far from the mother, were the two middle boys.

In my zoned-out state, I decided to watch the dynamics of these four boys. After all, there could be excitement during this, their blissful window of ultimate freedom that opened up whilst their mom occupied herself, lopsided and burdened, in the grown-up line. I, too, was stuck in the grown-up line, but the cathartic energy of these youth gave me temporary escape.

It didn’t take long for the action to start. Marcus prowled – bored, big and dangerous - and found his perfectly content littlest brother Misio occupied on the floor playing in his world of plastic action heroes. Being the youngest of five children, I know well this world, the world of imagination, the only world where he, too, could have a chance to be the biggest. Marcus strolled up, now self-amused, and snatched Misio’s action figure. A stunned Misio, big-eyed and obviously unhappy to be pulled back into reality, leapt up and yelled. Marcus taunted Misio, holding the toy within reach of the wee one, and then yanking it away when the little hand reached up. This cycle repeated, over and over, until big, fat tears welled up in Misio’s eyes and his throat tightened in helpless anger that didn’t fit into his little body.

Then it happened. Out of another small body, one that had never strayed more than a couple feet from his mother’s right leg, came a call into the air. “Meee-seee-ohhh! Meee-seee-ohhh!” As the little Misio reached the verge of breakdown, these words of rescue reached his ears. One of the middle brothers, just older than Misio, was calling with urgency. Misio reluctantly left his losing battle with the towering Marcus and went to this other brother, who I will call “Little J” because his real name was never yelled, never spoken.

Little J was an old soul hiding in a five-year-old. He took Misio into his own safe space near the mother’s leg. There, he carefully removed from his shoulders a small backpack, one with brightly colored red, blue, and yellow panels. He unzipped the pack, still very careful and intent, as if on a mission. In the pack was only one thing, obviously a very special thing – a large, plastic action figure of his own. With deftness and purpose, Little J moved the figure’s arms and legs into a powerful pose, and with a few soft and serious words, he gave up the figure and handed it to Misio. I am not exaggerating one bit when I say that Little J’s eyes said to Misio, “I see your pain, it hurts me too, and I want to help. Take my toy and things will be better.”

Misio’s eyes lit up, his tears dried up, and he sprang forth with the action figure and ran circles with Marcus. They were now playing with each other rather than against each other. And there was peace. Little J returned his empty backpack carefully to his shoulders, quietly. He never left his mother’s leg.

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