Many years before, and about five states away
"Damir, we need you to sit down for a second, okay?" the man shouted to his son, who continued to ignore his call to him. The five-year-old's focus was fixed only upon the geometrically-patterned ball of black and white that he wove wildly down the living room floor, narrowly avoiding paint-splattered cardboard boxes, the coffee table and the boxy television upon the worn wooden floor.
"Damir," the boy's mother called. "You can practice later, outside, okay?" she said, hurrying toward him before he could reach her easel. He hardly noticed it as he continued to weave through the small living room, until his mother caught up with him, placing her hands strategically on his small, thin shoulders, while his father scooped the ball from the floor.
"It'll only take a couple of minutes. But Mommy and Daddy have something really important to tell you about right now. Can you wait a couple of minutes?"
The boy crossed his arms, his lower lip sticking out in a childish scowl.
"Please, Damir. We promise," his father chimed in. "I'll take you out to the field if you just let us talk a minute..."
At that second, he scrambled from his mother's grasp and onto the couch, his arms uncrossed, upright and as mature as he could possibly manage to look as a five-year-old.
"Okay. What seems to be the matter?" he said, abruptly precocious. The parents shook their heads. They could tell he only had one thing on his mind--he didn't even try to meet their eyes, his gaze fixed on the prize held under his father's arm.
"Well..." his mother began, taking a seat next to him, her husband following suit. Each parent sat at either side of their young son. This was a bit difficult to explain, and they could only hope it wouldn't cause him too much trouble.
They had been here for two years. And three to five were important years, they recognized. But work was work. Service and others were always their priorities.
And here was another.
"Do you remember where we used to live, Damir?" the husband continued for his wife.
The child shook his head.
"No, not really," he said, still eyeing the soccer ball.
Mother and father met eyes, sharing in their uncertainty of how to continue.
"Damir..." she started again.
"Yes, Mommy?" he replied this time.
"Your daddy and I have jobs that require us to move to a lot of different places..."
He nodded, and for a brief moment, they believed he already understood.
"Mmhmm," he said. "Can we go to the soccer field now, Daddy?"
He turned toward his father, and his best friend in his arms.
"No, not yet, Damir... what your mommy and I are trying to say is..."
"We're going to have to move again, Damir. To a new town, and a new house..."
The husband looked to his wife, and his eyes questioned whether they should tell him so bluntly right now. The child gave his mother a puzzled stare.
"You're... you're going to need to go to a new school, and..."
"But mommy, soccer..."
"I know, I know, sweetheart, but we have..."
"I don't wanna go!" he shouted, and leapt of the couch, reaching for the soccer ball. His father held it away, wincing. This was exactly what they were afraid of.
"Sit back down, Damir," his father requested, firmly.
"No! I don't wanna leave, Mommy. I don't wanna go, Daddy. I wanna stay here. I wanna play soccer with the other kids, I wanna stay at Kid-nergarten, please, I don't wanna go..."
He looked up at them desperately. One could not aptly predict the emotions of a child.
His mother drew in a deep breath. "I know, I know, sweetie... but you can play soccer and go to kindergarten at... your new... school," she began. Moving was not easy, not for anyone. Both parents had the same thought, as they considered the times they may need to have this conversation with him again. But how would he react then?
Their little boy turned away from them, sitting down on the floor with his legs crossed.
"I don't... wanna... go..." he said, through sniffling. His mother winced. She hated tears. She couldn't imagine crying for something like this, however, even as a five-year-old...
His father immediately noted her expression, and sat down on the floor next to their son. He put his arm around him, releasing the ball.
"It'll be okay, son. Your mom's right... you can join the soccer team at your new school. We'll get you new cleats and a uniform and everything. And you'll meet lots of new friends to play with..." he said, in a gentle tone.
Their current neighborhood was quiet and well-groomed, but the small family were the only ones on the block with a young child.
The little boy sniffled one more time, before glancing up at his father. And then the soccer ball.
"C'mon. We can go to the field. The big one."
His son seemed to lighten a little.
"Okay," he mumbled. He brightened when he stood, taking it upon himself to gently kick the ball toward their door. The man briefly glanced at his wife, who finally stood from the couch. She reached into one of the boxes, and pulled out her brushes.
"Thank you," she murmured to him.
"It's okay," he said, as reassuringly as he possibly could.
"Come on, Dad!" the child shouted, already halfway out the door, the excitement having returned to him. The man smiled weakly, while his wife pulled out her canvas, and the father followed after his son.
"Damir, we need you to sit down for a second, okay?" the man shouted to his son, who continued to ignore his call to him. The five-year-old's focus was fixed only upon the geometrically-patterned ball of black and white that he wove wildly down the living room floor, narrowly avoiding paint-splattered cardboard boxes, the coffee table and the boxy television upon the worn wooden floor.
"Damir," the boy's mother called. "You can practice later, outside, okay?" she said, hurrying toward him before he could reach her easel. He hardly noticed it as he continued to weave through the small living room, until his mother caught up with him, placing her hands strategically on his small, thin shoulders, while his father scooped the ball from the floor.
"It'll only take a couple of minutes. But Mommy and Daddy have something really important to tell you about right now. Can you wait a couple of minutes?"
The boy crossed his arms, his lower lip sticking out in a childish scowl.
"Please, Damir. We promise," his father chimed in. "I'll take you out to the field if you just let us talk a minute..."
At that second, he scrambled from his mother's grasp and onto the couch, his arms uncrossed, upright and as mature as he could possibly manage to look as a five-year-old.
"Okay. What seems to be the matter?" he said, abruptly precocious. The parents shook their heads. They could tell he only had one thing on his mind--he didn't even try to meet their eyes, his gaze fixed on the prize held under his father's arm.
"Well..." his mother began, taking a seat next to him, her husband following suit. Each parent sat at either side of their young son. This was a bit difficult to explain, and they could only hope it wouldn't cause him too much trouble.
They had been here for two years. And three to five were important years, they recognized. But work was work. Service and others were always their priorities.
And here was another.
"Do you remember where we used to live, Damir?" the husband continued for his wife.
The child shook his head.
"No, not really," he said, still eyeing the soccer ball.
Mother and father met eyes, sharing in their uncertainty of how to continue.
"Damir..." she started again.
"Yes, Mommy?" he replied this time.
"Your daddy and I have jobs that require us to move to a lot of different places..."
He nodded, and for a brief moment, they believed he already understood.
"Mmhmm," he said. "Can we go to the soccer field now, Daddy?"
He turned toward his father, and his best friend in his arms.
"No, not yet, Damir... what your mommy and I are trying to say is..."
"We're going to have to move again, Damir. To a new town, and a new house..."
The husband looked to his wife, and his eyes questioned whether they should tell him so bluntly right now. The child gave his mother a puzzled stare.
"You're... you're going to need to go to a new school, and..."
"But mommy, soccer..."
"I know, I know, sweetheart, but we have..."
"I don't wanna go!" he shouted, and leapt of the couch, reaching for the soccer ball. His father held it away, wincing. This was exactly what they were afraid of.
"Sit back down, Damir," his father requested, firmly.
"No! I don't wanna leave, Mommy. I don't wanna go, Daddy. I wanna stay here. I wanna play soccer with the other kids, I wanna stay at Kid-nergarten, please, I don't wanna go..."
He looked up at them desperately. One could not aptly predict the emotions of a child.
His mother drew in a deep breath. "I know, I know, sweetie... but you can play soccer and go to kindergarten at... your new... school," she began. Moving was not easy, not for anyone. Both parents had the same thought, as they considered the times they may need to have this conversation with him again. But how would he react then?
Their little boy turned away from them, sitting down on the floor with his legs crossed.
"I don't... wanna... go..." he said, through sniffling. His mother winced. She hated tears. She couldn't imagine crying for something like this, however, even as a five-year-old...
His father immediately noted her expression, and sat down on the floor next to their son. He put his arm around him, releasing the ball.
"It'll be okay, son. Your mom's right... you can join the soccer team at your new school. We'll get you new cleats and a uniform and everything. And you'll meet lots of new friends to play with..." he said, in a gentle tone.
Their current neighborhood was quiet and well-groomed, but the small family were the only ones on the block with a young child.
The little boy sniffled one more time, before glancing up at his father. And then the soccer ball.
"C'mon. We can go to the field. The big one."
His son seemed to lighten a little.
"Okay," he mumbled. He brightened when he stood, taking it upon himself to gently kick the ball toward their door. The man briefly glanced at his wife, who finally stood from the couch. She reached into one of the boxes, and pulled out her brushes.
"Thank you," she murmured to him.
"It's okay," he said, as reassuringly as he possibly could.
"Come on, Dad!" the child shouted, already halfway out the door, the excitement having returned to him. The man smiled weakly, while his wife pulled out her canvas, and the father followed after his son.
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