Peering through the Rearview

The rearview mirror filled with his smile and a quick wink. And like that I realize he's growing. In a few days, my son will start kindergarten. A few blinks later, we'll be taking him to college.  Leaps and bounds in measurements of gold stars and honor rolls. We'll circle the basepaths in baseball and life and soon, days like today, in all their perfect wonder, won't register.

Today, in a summer filled with unforgettable nights and days, is tied for first. It's rare for a 35 year old step from his office shell and dare a five year old to take him back in time, too consumed daily with the next task to take a step away and grab a handful of smiles.  But as the rearview reflected his smile, it brought me solace.

There will be bad weeks at work. There will always be unanswered questions and an onset of disappointment. They disappear with a return to innocence. I've missed nights at home for work, nights where the unimportance resounds through me like a bell's toll.  Too many to count and there's no real escape from it. Maybe someday he'll understand the only place I truly want to be is right now where the shine of his smile as the sunset glows on him fills my soul entirely. Maybe, when I'm gone from home, he'll remember today and days like it with that warm grin.

He charted our adventure. We climbed. We crawled. We laughed. And he smiled. I'll never forget that brilliance. How he saw his own sense of adventure hatch like an eaglet. His fears disappeared like smoke and grabbed mine in its departure.

He made me a child again, if only for a few moments, erasing my fears and worries and showing me the path I need to see. 

He starts kindergarten soon. Yet he's the teacher.

Four Years

Four Years

I don't know where I'd begin if the chance arose.  Perhaps an introduction to my son, whom he met, but brain cancer kept him from knowing.  Then my beautiful little girl who makes me cry with a smile.  He'd smile at her, it's impossible not to, mop of blonde curls surrounding her chubby cheeks, surrounding that smile, and a quick glimpse of heaven.  He'd love them, truly.

Part of me knows he's smiling on us, watching them grow and laying a caring hand on their shoulders, but most of me still curses the heartbreak and the broken dreams and open-ended life created by his death.

It's been four years and all I have are questions.  How are you?  Am I doing okay as a man, as a husband and most importantly, as a father?  What's it like wherever you are?....Will you stay? Just a minute longer?

No answers and never will be. Instead, the hope a life I've chosen isn't one reflected upon in regret and one which mixes the heartbreak of missed moments with the fulfillment of a life's work, whatever indistinguishable accomplishment that might be or become. Of hope my children know I love them unconditionally, the way I knew with him.  Of hope they know they're perfect in whatever they may become if their best is the fruit of labor, love, faith and determination.  Of hope they embrace the undying support I knew and attempt to pass on.

Friends tell me they've had the dream.  One where they return, spend moments beside one another, laughing, crying and talking.  That dream always ends in heartbreak.  I'm not certain I want that.  His absence now is almost too much at times.  An aberration or the teasing of a fulfilled wish could break me in two.

Seems like yesterday. An open wound to remain as such.

http://instagr.am/p/LG5ZoLH2mA/

Our reflections aren't seen only in a mirror.

Lil Sis

"Just take my hand, lil sis.  I'll show you what I've learned."

Keep Quiet

"Keep quiet," I thought as I crawl quietly through the cemetery.

The stars were breathtaking, but the cold bit my fingertips like a trapped doberman.

Still, it was worth the trip.  I hadn't imagined the night alone would bring me to this, but I dipped further into myself.

No music, no talk radio, nothing but my thoughts to myself as I stared into the netherworld.  The night reminds me I once envisioned the dream my son holds in his sleep.  Nothing gains his interest like a night under the stars, peering through the telescope, finding Jupiter or Venus.

But school changed my ideas of space travel.  You see, to me, math and science were Latin.  My grades and desire reflected it.  My blank stares at the overhead projection were interrupted only by the punctuating rapt of my teacher's voice calling my name.

My eyes are open to the folly of my youth now.  Time doesn't change the mistakes of the past tense dreamer.

Like most parents, I turn to learn what churns my child's wheelhouse.  My love lies in writing, in photography.  But daily, I gain crumbs of science, math and the brilliance of mechanical minds whose bolts I couldn't replace.  Fascination with science plagues me now.  Consumes, really.  We're all carbon, formed in our own mould, yet their wiring sparks a little brighter.

I live for the day, when sharing what I've learned with my son gains his excitement, hoping he's one of them.  Believing it can be fostered from kindling.  Maybe his life will uncover the unknown.  Maybe his legacy will be a cure, an antidote or a discovery.

But then again, maybe the love of the unlearned will fade. Mine did.  Changed to athletics, then girls.  There it stayed, until he came.  For him, now the twinkle, like the stars tonight, is still there.  Unblemished like his sense of the world.

"Keep quiet," I remind myself.  It will come soon enough.  "Keep quiet."

Jammed

The day passes before I can look to see the sunlight. It's been that way lately. The lone illumination of the day sneaking through the blinds or from the LCD computer monitor.

Where I sit is a dead end, really.

Even the greatest of highways have a dead end, or at least a cul de sac.  From one, you can't turn back, the other you face the road you've taken.

I'm not sure which option is the better choice.

This exercise has been less of an idea exchange for me, and more of a search for inspiration.  The depth of my empty thoughts have been lost in dreary-eyed stares and hard-headed writer's block.  Yet, here I sit.  Staring. Staring.

Haste, Laid to Waste

Yeah....I'm behind.  I know.  I knew A/Z would be difficult.  It's not named "Challenge" for giggles.  I was hardly aware it would be this tough to find a route to the computer for 26 of 30 days to keep disciplined.  My mind has bounced from topic to topic, but nary a one can be deemed "right" to expound upon.  Instead, the lines have been blurred between hiding from QWERTY and showing too much of my soul.  Therein, I have discovered lies the balance.

Now, back to work.

Greatness

What makes a man?

Do ranks of achievement bestow the size of a man's worth or is it the depth of love?

Were halls of fame built for the fullest tomb? Or in the hearts broken in our wake?

Like billions of words written on slate and computer have shouted, the happiest life isn't built on achievement, nor possession. Rather, in the smiles you created. Rather, in the love you shared.

Falling Away

She looks uncertain under the right light.  I've seen the look.  An echo of her mother's, usually carrying a smirk.  This time, humor escaped her eyes as she fought past the tears.

"It's going to be lonely here," she said, emotions lining her cheekbones as she smiled, "Silly me.  Looking through the good for the bad.  This is your dream.  Go. Go!"

So I did.

The door shut behind me.  I left my home, back to it, I stared at the sun, placed one foot in front of another to the car.  Car in reverse down the driveway, I looked for pulled curtains.  Seeking her smile.  Hoping for it, really.  But nothing.

"I'm alone in this," I said quietly.

So was she.

Deposit

On my chest of drawers sits a small, black 35-year old bank book.  Well, it turned 35 in February.

It speaks for itself, really.  A gesture of young parents, desperate to make their child's life better than theirs.   It seems simple, and to some whose wealth is measured in dollar signs instead of love, it seems paltry.

There's nothing insignificant in this gesture.  Look beyond $20 being a good portion of my father's paycheck in 1977.  Don't stop at the incremental deposits, none more than the original, or even close for that matter.

What I see is what I feel.  The love of two young, nervous souls fighting against everything laid in their path.  I see the truth of love, mixed in second hand polyester bell bottoms and sail-sized collared shirts, spaghetti dinners, bologna sandwich lunches, Jackson Browne on the 8-track with the windows down and the untold future blowing through their hair.  

"We'll be alright," in her ear at midnight, he'd say as she fell asleep on his shoulder, unsure of the truth or a way to the next week's meals.

What I see in the savings book, I feel.  Not in the desperation, but in the determination. 

Being Home

Hugs from little arms greet my keys in the door.
A teasing kiss and smile.
A welcome and a wish to stay.
The days which entail me being home
Permanently...
Will be late as winter to Autumn's color, as summer's sun to spring blooms.
My empty mornings.
My fruitless nights.
All without them.
Slipping through my fingers
Like water from the faucet.

Here goes nothin'.

On a dare and a bit of inspiration I am spending the month of April in the A to Z blogging challenge. The hope is to use the month as a way to dedicate to writing, but to also become better at it

I hope you enjoy.

Erased

Entranced in the belongings of my world and the demands which take me to and from. 

A moment the Insignificant is erased and Important becomes my truth.

Annie

When I saw her, the drapes fell from my eyes.  A universe unto my heart, unto my mind.  She still sings my song.

Cleansed

All I really had wanted was to pop in the ear buds, turn on Bon Iver and get the job done. You see, I'm not particularly thrilled with the notion of trading in my all-to-small pickup but it's gotten beyond necessary.

So I pulled the wife's car from the garage, and moved mine within to begin the job. It's not an easy one. I'm not what could be described as a neatfreak so it'd been a good two years, 20,000 miles and dozens of slightly spilled coffees on the bumpy road to work since it had seen the wrong end of a vacuum.

I reached for the Bon Iver as they popped into my periphery. I couldn't blame them. Eighty degrees in mid-March tends to allow the senses to pull you through the door. But still I worked.

I pulled old parade candy -- homecoming? Fair? 2009? 2010? Who knows when I got it -- along with check stubs, a pocket full of change and enough disposable ink pens to hand write a set of Britannicas.

All in a box. All awaiting sorting.

Then they jumped in. They're the reason for ditching the old Ranger. There's no other reason to rid myself of it other than practicality. There is no payment. It's comfortable as an old pair of jeans. But it's simply too small to be of any use anymore.

Reluctantly I'm walking into the world of sports equipment-filled minivans. A few weeks ago my first gray hairs. Now this. I get it. I'm a dad. No need to force feed me a midlife crisis sandwich.

There they sat. My little girl playing the chauffeur to my son. Twenty years ago, that was my younger brothers.  Pretending to be our dad as he worked on his baby. That '65 Mustang sits unpolished, unfinished in the garage brain cancer left empty nearly four years ago.

A generation later, the broken down muscle car is the scaffold of my childhood. Now, the only vehicle I've known as a father will effectively be a down payment.

I catch my tears before it's evident how the life of this truck is more than fenders and wheels. It was the first big purchase of my post college life. It was memories of my late father. It was long country rides with my boy next to me and on my lap for the turnabout in the driveway. It was long lonely trips where the only solace was sweet music and tears for missed moments at home.  It was date night with my wife. It was moving out for the first time. It was becoming a father and a man without a realization of it being my time. It was freedom and it was mine.

The smell of Armor All now brings my flirtation with sobbing to near boil.

But I turn back to look at the kids. There is my son, almost five, teaching his sister to honk the horn. Her shock, then joy are exceedingly beautiful and the subsequent contagion of his laughter turns my melancholy to a smile.