Peter’s Song

Peter sang his song most days. “Oh Jonny, Oh Papa.” It was the bane of his teacher’s existence. Mostly because it was the only song Peter sang—over and over again at all the wrong times.

Meals

“Oh Johnny, Oh Papa.”

“Stop singing.”

The Pledge of Allegiance

“Oh Johnny, Oh Papa.”

“Wrong Words.”

Lesson time

“Oh Johnny, Oh Papa.”

“You are disrupting, Peter.”

Peter’s song filled the small, wooden school house and reignited Teacher’s headache. The one-room building doubled as the town church, but Teacher hadn’t attended a Sunday since her husband was snuffed out in the coal mine. The townspeople made no objection to her absence yet, but she knew they disapproved. Then, Peter found her drinking from a flask. He thought it was water. That was her saving grace.

Peter was a good kid. He just needed to learn when it’s time to play and when it’s time to learn—when it’s time to sing and when it’s time to stop. The school year went on, and Peter matured some—as most did. But he kept singing.

“Oh Johnny, Oh Papa.”

Then, the kids left for Christmas break. And when they returned, Peter no longer sang his song. So, his classmates filled the silence with their own mocking rendition of his song. Then they chanted, and egged him on to sing his song. They made dares and demands. Peter clenched his teeth. His classmates weren’t getting what they were looking for, so they taunted louder. Then, Peter charged at the loudest singer—nailing him to the floor, pounding his little fist into the boy’s face. Blood spattered onto the shirts of the boys standing nearby, along the floor, and over Peter’s face, which formed an expression no one at the school had seen before.

The commotion grabbed Teacher’s attention as her head pounded in pain from the noise. She pulled Peter off the boy. Her eyes bore into Peter’s own—studying him for a few seconds. “What on earth came over you?” she demanded.

“They sang my song. I wanted them to stop,” he told her.

Teacher felt no sympathy. She reached for a stiff wooden chair in the corner. “Stand on this chair,” she demanded. Peter didn’t dare move. I said stand on this chair this instant!”

Peter, with his chin hidden in his chest, sulked slowly towards the chair. He stopped before it—looking up at Teacher.

“Step up.”

He didn’t budge.

“Step up!”

Peter stepped up. Left foot. Then right.

“Sing your song,” she sneered.

Silence.

“Sing the song!”

With tears in his eyes, Peter sang his song so quietly that the class could only hear the tune. “Oh Johnny, oh Papa.”

“Sing your song louder, little Peter!” Teacher shrieked.

Peter started singing louder, more distinctly—his eyes full of tears while Teacher’s were full of fury. “Dance, Peter. Go on! Sing your song and dance your dance.” Within a minute, Peter was singing his song and dancing his dance as he always had. Wiggling and belting. Swaying and tapping. “That’s the old Peter,” thought Teacher. “Don’t stop now.” She made sure his performance lasted a full minute. “Take a bow,” she told him. Then, Teacher turned her back without bothering to watch for his obedience.

Snap

The chair broke as Peter attempted this final move. He dropped to the ground and rested among the broken pieces.

So it was for Peter’s papa as well. For just last night he stepped on a chair, rope around his neck, and kicked the chair from beneath him—breaking it.

Peter said only one thing upon finding his body.

“Oh Papa.”