I’m sitting on the patio tonight, enjoying a warm summer evening with a cold beer and a good cigar. It’s a clear night, so I watch the stars twinkle through the smoke exhaled from my H. Upman, as it billows up toward the heavens. It’s a good night for reflection.
Looking down on the patio I see two pebbles. Flat little orbs rounded by time and weather that had found their way to their current locations thanks to either Agalia’s haphazard sorting of stones on our steel, diamond mesh-patterned patio table, or DJ tossing them as a young boy experiments with the angles and trajectories of forced flight. A few feet away are some hastily scribbled chalk drawings of sunshine, some clouds and a patch of grass; a collaborative effort between Agalia and visiting family of one of our neighbors.
I want to cling to this day, this point in time, forever. Record it in a time machine so that it can be replayed and relived over and over. Agalia and her deep-rooted desire to make friends wherever she goes, with whomever she meets. Unencumbered by intimidation or shyness, she’s introduced herself to hundreds if not thousands of children and adults. “Hi, my name’s Agalia. What’s your name?” she warbles, inviting anyone who’s interested to stand in the light that is her presence. So sweet and generous, willing to share even her most prized possessions. Maybe she’s aware more than even her parents that the most prized things one can have aren’t material things, but human connections. Friendships. Relationships. Such wisdom at the age of three.
And DJ, small but growing, happy and strong. Flirtatious with all of the feminine gender both young and very old, flashing a quick, gap-toothed smile then coyly turning away. Enthralled with the physical world, even the hardest cry can be quelled simply by stepping outdoors, taking in the wonder of leaves blowing in the trees like tiny green kites anchored by short tethers to their wooden base, or the feel of soft blades of grass tickling at his feet. He’s got a sense of mischief and humor, climbing onto things he knows he’s not allowed to scale, then calling attention to his misdeeds with an “Ello?”, hoping I’ll see him tempting his fate and my patience.
It feels like we’re living part of a Springsteen song, something about ain’t havin’ much money but bein’ rich. (Or maybe it’s Anne Murray, though that sounds way less cool.) I’ve got so many things to show them, to teach them before they grow up. And I’ve tried more times than I can count to guess at where their lives will take them, but I know now that it’s a fool’s game. A ten minute job interview when I was 15 changed my life’s path forever. Nobody could have predicted it. So whether my kids become doctors or day traders, astronauts or admin assistants, I just hope they find a place in this world that makes them happy.
Tomorrow the pebbles will probably be swept up, placed in a plastic basket for play on another day. The chalk scribbles will be washed away with the next rain. I hope I have time to show them all I want them to see before the last pebbles are swept up, the final chalk drawings of their childhood are washed away by time.
My cigar smoked to a nub, my Budweiser empty, with the stars as my witness I resolve to do more of those things I know I must to be a good dad.
