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Being comfortable laying bare your most private self for public view is something you either are or aren’t okay with.
For people who are, it is an obligation of sorts to do so.
We must expose because we are okay with that exposure.
And so comes mine today.
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For people who are, it is an obligation of sorts to do so.
We must expose because we are okay with that exposure.
And so comes mine today.
1/
I played golf with two friends today. Dear friends. Old friends. Friends I thought I might ring out 2020 without having seen once.
We met up to play golf a good ways from me. A solid drive across the Hudson and up into New York.
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We met up to play golf a good ways from me. A solid drive across the Hudson and up into New York.
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I left early. It was only when I got close to the course that I realized it was near my father’s house.
My father died almost 2 years ago. We were long estranged.
He knew nothing of me for 20 years. He knew nothing of my son. A grandson never acknowledged a mere drive away.
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My father died almost 2 years ago. We were long estranged.
He knew nothing of me for 20 years. He knew nothing of my son. A grandson never acknowledged a mere drive away.
3/
The round of golf was consuming in the way rare times with friends are.
I cherish these friends. One is 12 years past cancer. The other, 12 days past surgery.
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I cherish these friends. One is 12 years past cancer. The other, 12 days past surgery.
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When the round was over, we agreed to head back to one friend’s house.
It wasn’t far.
I punched the address into Waze. Told them I had to make a stop first but would meet them there.
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It wasn’t far.
I punched the address into Waze. Told them I had to make a stop first but would meet them there.
5/
For the first few miles we were three cars in a line. But then I pulled off at an exit I had long forgotten but still knew.
Turned down a hill both different and the same. Made a left onto a street unchanged by two decades.
And then I came to what was my father’s house.
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Turned down a hill both different and the same. Made a left onto a street unchanged by two decades.
And then I came to what was my father’s house.
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I pulled up in front of a driveway I hadn’t pulled into since 1998.
A new family owns it now.
I took a picture and pulled away.
And on I went to my friend’s house.
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A new family owns it now.
I took a picture and pulled away.
And on I went to my friend’s house.
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The afternoon was great in the way time with friends who are family always are. Easy. Simple. Relaxed in the acceptance of relationships worn soft like leather by time and shared lives.
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8/
And then as day faded to dusk, I left.
The GPS pointed me to the Saw Mill Parkway.
I always hated that road.
Growing up, I lived in New York City. I spent summers in New Hampshire with grandparents and then with an aunt and uncle.
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The GPS pointed me to the Saw Mill Parkway.
I always hated that road.
Growing up, I lived in New York City. I spent summers in New Hampshire with grandparents and then with an aunt and uncle.
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Each Labor Day, my father would come up to get us and drive us back.
The Saw Mill was my Green Mile.
It was the last leg of a return to a life I didn’t so much want to come back to.
I hated every turn of that road.
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The Saw Mill was my Green Mile.
It was the last leg of a return to a life I didn’t so much want to come back to.
I hated every turn of that road.
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As a father, I’ve endeavored to make my son’s childhood so very different.
I’ve pushed in all my chips - every last chip - on a wager that his life will be richer and happier and more at peace by virtue of a different first few years.
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I’ve pushed in all my chips - every last chip - on a wager that his life will be richer and happier and more at peace by virtue of a different first few years.
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I’ve wagered the entirety of my possessions on a singular idea:
My child should not grow up with his happiness subordinate to mine.
His happiness - even for that one day - should not be dependent on how the adults in his life were doing that day.
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My child should not grow up with his happiness subordinate to mine.
His happiness - even for that one day - should not be dependent on how the adults in his life were doing that day.
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That’s the debilitating toxin of alcoholic households.
Children learn that their day will be only as good as their parent is that day.
And that is a meteorology kids learn to read acutely for it is the only weather that matters.
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Children learn that their day will be only as good as their parent is that day.
And that is a meteorology kids learn to read acutely for it is the only weather that matters.
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So, after divorcing, I pushed all my chips to the middle of the table.
I scuttled everything but fatherhood. Social life, career, house.
I thought I could make it 5 years. I thought I could get him to 7 years old. Past when the cement starts to harden.
I’ve made it ten.
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I scuttled everything but fatherhood. Social life, career, house.
I thought I could make it 5 years. I thought I could get him to 7 years old. Past when the cement starts to harden.
I’ve made it ten.
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A week from now, my son and I are going away on vacation.
I rented a cabin. It’s a place my grandparents used to own.
It’s the place my father used to come to get us those Labor Day weekends for that long drive back down the Saw Mill.
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I rented a cabin. It’s a place my grandparents used to own.
It’s the place my father used to come to get us those Labor Day weekends for that long drive back down the Saw Mill.
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It is a vacation long overdue.
It is the thing I’ve held onto.
When my life fractured and shattered like a crystal vase pushed off a high shelf, the idea of this vacation was the shard I picked up off the floor.
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It is the thing I’ve held onto.
When my life fractured and shattered like a crystal vase pushed off a high shelf, the idea of this vacation was the shard I picked up off the floor.
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In my worst times, in those moments when it was all tunnel and no light, I cupped that shard in my hands and rubbed it as smooth as sea glass between my fingers.
There would come a day.
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There would come a day.
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Our first vacation “on the other side of the tunnel” was supposed to be to California. But then COVID hit.
And then unintentionally but perhaps led by some divine closing of a circle, I booked this week.
That shard long polished smooth is a week away.
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And then unintentionally but perhaps led by some divine closing of a circle, I booked this week.
That shard long polished smooth is a week away.
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We’ll make that long drive up together. We’ll swim and fish and cook out.
I’ll tell him stories he hasn’t heard of his great-grandparents who lived just up the hill behind the cabin.
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I’ll tell him stories he hasn’t heard of his great-grandparents who lived just up the hill behind the cabin.
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And then, the week will end.
And we’ll drive home.
And I know this much is true:
As we near New York City, as we pass those signs for the Saw Mill, the only person in the car who will notice will be me.
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And we’ll drive home.
And I know this much is true:
As we near New York City, as we pass those signs for the Saw Mill, the only person in the car who will notice will be me.
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My son, almost a teenager, will have his arm on the sill with the window down, wind blowing through hair the last faint blond of childhood, contented with the easy peace of a happy week in an otherwise stable life.
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I love my son with the totality of my soul.
I love being his father with the totality of my capacity to love.
A week from now, we’re going away.
I don’t know what it means to him but I know what it means to me.
Everything.
22/22
I love being his father with the totality of my capacity to love.
A week from now, we’re going away.
I don’t know what it means to him but I know what it means to me.
Everything.
22/22
