Happy New Year

Everywhere in our bright, blue, bittersweet world,
we are surrounded and blessed by angels,
kept warm by abounding love, light, and laughter…
we celebrate the New Year, we embrace the gentle season...

Everywhere in our bright, blue, bountiful world,
we share love with our brethren, kinsmen and strangers alike,
giving thanks for the amazing grace of the Universe…
celebrating the New Year, embracing the gentle season…

Everywhere in our bright, blue, beautiful world,
we love and are loved, serve and are served,
appreciate and are appreciated, pray and are kept in soft prayers…
we celebrate a bright New Year, we embrace the gentle season…

Thank you for visiting Bread and Roses. I hope that each and every one of you have a bright and beautiful...peaceful and bountiful...New Year filled by peace, joy, love, passion, laughter (and however much rabble rousing and howling at the moon you might need to keep it...and you...frisky :-).

dance in the light, y'all,
Michael K. Willis

Hey Mister...

Driving through driving rain, Christopher Ryan has no idea where he’s going. He had only the vaguest idea about where he’s been…he’s sober despite half-hearted attempts to be otherwise…not at all able to pretend that he was feeling no pain. He’s driving…running…from no place in an unfocused hurry to get someplace else. Christopher likes to run.

I won’t be here forever, someone gentle had told him, but you know where to find me when you’re ready…

Ready? Ready for what? Christopher also likes to pretend that he didn’t understand when the questions demanded more than he wanted to give and the answers made him too uncomfortable. A plaintive song comes on the radio and Christopher resists the urge to change the station…

…hey mister, that’s me up on the jukebox,
I’m the one singing the sad song,
and I cry every time you slip in one more dime
and play me singing that sad one one more time…

Christopher allows himself a rueful smile as turns the car off the highway. He parks close by a gnarled old tree but he leaves the engine running and the radio going. He sits back and stares into the cold liquid darkness.

Beth…Elizabeth…her love is so bright and welcoming that it’s terrifying. Christopher shudders, knowing himself to be a fool and a coward, and wonders how the rain got through the roof and onto his cheeks.

…southern California, that’s as blue as boy can be,
blue as the deep blue sea,
won’t you listen to me know?
I need your golden gated cities like a hole in my head,
just like a hole in my head, I’m free…

Christopher looks back at the rain-swept highway…love will let you down, he thinks…the road never will…love is too fickle…it hurts too much…better to be a coward than a victim. Christopher takes a deep breath and nods. Not again. He looks at the highway again and steals himself to disappear into the dark night, safe from heartache…safe from love. Running away was something Christopher knew how to do all too well.

…I do believe I’m headed home,
hey mister, can’t you see that I’m dry as a bone?
I think I’ll spend some time alone,
unless you’ve found a way of squeezing
water from a stone…

“Not again,” Christopher mutters aloud. He puts the car in gear and pulls back onto the liquid highway.

…let the doctor and the lawyer
do as much as they can,
let the springtime begins,
let the boy become a man…

Christopher drives hard straight and true to what he knows, his fear notwithstanding, is the safest haven he could possibly find. The porch light is on. The rain gives way to a gentle drizzle. Christopher gets out of the car and trudges up to the door. Standing in the creamy golden glow of the porch light, he knocks three times and waits.

…I have wasted too much time
just to sing you this sad song,
I have been this lonesome picker
just a little too long…

After a seeming eternity, a light goes on inside and the door opens warily. Beth, stifling a yawn and ensconced in the warmth of her favorite terrycloth robe, stands there, a wary but unsurprised at once. Then a smile softens her face. “Hey mister,” she says with a wink, “it took you long enough…” She holds her arms open.

Christopher surges into her embrace and snuggles in tightly. “I do love you,” he sighs nuzzling his damp head against her shoulder.

Beth strokes his head and smiles patiently. “Silly man,” she coos soothingly, “I always knew that. You were the one who needed convincing.” She leads him into the house and closes the door behind them.

“Hey Mister, That’s Me Up on the Jukebox”
words and music by James Taylor
©1972 Blackwood Music (BMI)

Three Questions

This morning on an NPR program entitled To the Best of Our Knowledge they explored “The Meaning of Life” (not too grand a topic to try to encapsulate in one hour of radio time :-). Part of the broadcast featured people being asked three provocative questions:

What do you live for?
What would you die for?
What would kill for?

The answers to these questions can be guilelessly simple…and incredibly complicated. We can answer with broad generalities…I live for love, I would die for my country, I would kill to stop war…or with utterly personal truths…I live to make my lover happy, I would die to save my child’s life, I would kill only in self-defense…and none of our replies would be “wrong”.

The people on the program had a wide array of responses…from nervous jokes to plain-spoken, heartfelt sincerity…and, of course, it made stop and think how I would respond.

What do I live for?
I live to love and be loved by those in the close circles of family and friendship I belong to (and to make some kind of positive impact, however small, on their lives.) I live to learn…life is, ultimately, about learning from its very beginning to its very end. I live to be as happy as I can be. I live to write because that is what I’m called to do. I live to be of positive value, however small, to those I encounter in this life.

What would I die for?
I would die to save the lives of those closest to my heart and soul (it is, if I’m being perfectly honest, not as long a list as I might intellectually hope it might be…about 12 people whom I’m relatively sure I would take a bullet for without hesitation; another dozen or so I MIGHT do so for with varying degrees of hesitation.)

Despite my mother’s objections, I was willing to go to Vietnam (and fight and possibly die) when I was younger (that war ended before I reached the age of majority) and I’d like to think that I would still be willing to die for my country and I would willing to die rather than lose the freedom my forebears endured chains of slavery for, fought for, and died for. I won’t know for sure about these until it becomes a real choice I need to make.

What would I kill for?
The glib, off the cuff answer is that I would not kill for anything…but that’s not true (however much I might want it to be.) I would not ever want to kill but, that said, I know that I would very probably kill someone trying to kill somebody I loved…and I would kill if that was the only way to stop someone from killing me.

Three simple, complicated, thought-provoking, belief-challenging questions:

What do you live for?
What would you die for?
What would kill for?

The Moment (Falling in Love)

Joshua smiled shyly, the leathery creases in his face softening into tender curves and soft crevices, and waited for the next move to be made. The old man’s courtly manner, masculine and awkward, touched Kathy in ways that she was at a loss to even try to explain in the limited universe of spoken words.

Joshua, a casually graceful bear of man...tall and burly, hirsute and stoic...was comfortable with the years that he spent on Earth. Sixty-two summers ain’t that many, he would say with quiet conviction. Coyness not being a companion of his, he meant that totally without irony. He had made more than his share of mistakes…what man who was truly living could say that he had not?…but he learned from the ones he could and made his peace with the ones he could not and lived his life as the best man he could be.

Kathy, with her unruly auburn curls and her sober green eyes, the weight of her thirty-eight years having settled in full, unapologetic womanly curves on her sun-kissed frame, was enormously charmed and the gulf of years between her age and his faded into meaninglessness without her consciously realizing it. She had been a willing fool for love more than she cared to remember…old heartaches notwithstanding, she never stopped hoping to be that fool at least one more time.

Joshua touched Kathy’s face, with shy, devastating tenderness, and the moment…and their foolish, hopeful, brave hearts…took flight. The subsequent kiss…as humidly, magically passionate at it indeed was…merely reinforced what those hearts already knew.

one year ago...

One year ago…the Indian Ocean was disturbed from its usual ebbs and flows by an earthquake and, with scant little warning, a tsunami rose and swept across far-flung shores. Not with malice. Not with forethought. Nature doesn’t have animosity or caprice, it simply is and it simply does.

A tsunami rose and swept across far-flung shores…and more than 200,000 souls fell before its awful, undeniable, humbling power, dwelling from that moment on in the arms of the welcoming universe and in the warm-lit, summer-soft realms of the memories of those who fiercely loved the departed but were blessed and cursed to be left behind here in the mortal world.

One year ago…a small eternity ago…a tsunami seized our collective heart…our collective compassion…our collective fear of mortality taken in one sudden, terrible swoop…and shuddered as the toll of the dead rose with each subsequent news report. We sent prayers…we sent money…we sent our guilty relief that it wasn’t us…we sent soldiers of compassion and planeloads of donated goods.

And then…as we do because life and human nature moves us…we began to move on. Everyday life consumed us again. Wars large and small…nature moving in devastating ways (earthquakes, hurricanes, floods) in other parts of the world…matters of real human import and matters of trivial import…drew our attention; the world rolled on and we, running as fast as we can to keep up, rolled with it.

We didn’t forget…we just stopped remembering to remember because life took us…because it made us sad…because we understood that suffering is a part of life and there’s only so much we can do about it…because it was too painful…too overwhelming…too far away…to think about for too long.

One year ago…a heartbeat ago…a tsunami rose and swept across far-flung shores…and, for a moment at least, we pause to remember…

Happy Christmas

And one angel cried…
and his tears flowed like diamonds
sparkling bright in the never-ending sky;
and his tears flowed like rain
sweeping through the generous beings
of all the gentle folk resting sure
in the arms of a blessed Christmas morn.

And one angel sang…
and her song flowed like thunder
gentle and proud on an ebon night;
and her song flowed like a symphony
echoing through to the hearts of babies
still near enough to heaven
to know that song of a sweet Christmas morn.

And one angel danced…
and his steps flowed like sunlight
on a crisp and clear winter’s daybreak;
and his dance flowed like magic
keeping warm all of the immortal souls
waltzing with the rhythm of the eternal
and the music of a wondrous Christmas morn.

And one angel cried…
and her father lifted her up…
and her mother held her tight…
and her tears ran like honey and wine,
soft and sweet and sure as the sunlight,
soft and sweet and sure as the promise of love
come true in the dawning of another Christmas morn.

Thank you for visiting Bread and Roses. I hope that you all have a very Happy Christmas and a bright and peaceful New Year filled with love, light, and laughter.

peace and joy,
Michael

Neverending Rainbow
Christmas Annex 2005

Mr. Robinson

In my neighborhood the “boogie man” had nothing on old Mr. Robinson. Well at least that was the opinion held by my friends and I (ranging in age from 9 to 12 at the time.) Mr. Robinson stayed in his quiet blue house, with the drapes drawn and the windows shut tight, only venturing out to cut the lawn or to run errands in his big black tank of a car, a 1958 Cadillac that didn’t make as much noise as you might have expected something that big to make.

Nobody knew how long Mr. Robinson had lived in the neighborhood…he had been there as long as anybody, child or adult, could remember…and indeed nobody was exactly sure how old Mr. Robinson was (his skin, the color of rich pecans, was clear and relatively smooth but his hair, always neatly trimmed, was white as downy cotton.)

His wife, a chubby golden brown woman with perpetually smiling eyes, had always seemed to have a special place in her heart for all of the boisterous (and sometimes downright annoying) kids on the block. She would sit on her porch in her rocking chair knitting contentedly as we played baseball in the street or ran screaming like merry banshees during games of hide and seek that wove in and about all of the houses on the street; she would gently chastise us if tempers flared and fights seemed to be in the offing and that would be all that was needed to defuse the situation; she would bake wonderful treats to give away on Halloween and give us little candy hearts on Valentine’s Day. Some of us kids made her Valentines on Valentine’s Day and gave her little Christmas cards on the last day of school before Christmas vacation (we always brought Christmas cards to share with classmates and some of us saved an extra one to bring to Mrs. Robinson) and she always seemed to be delighted by them.

Mrs. Robinson (and yes she knew and liked the song, though she would have replaced Joe DiMaggio with Jackie Robinson in it if she had her druthers) made her house a welcoming place for us kids. Mr. Robinson, even then, was a sullen, mysterious figure who came and went paying little attention to the kids. We often wondered how it was that two such different people got together…and stayed together.

We never knew exactly how Mrs. Robinson died. One day an ambulance came and took her away while Mr. Robinson, dark blue and green suspenders (not sure why I remember that so vividly) holding up his brown trousers, watched from his porch. My mother and Lloyd West’s mother went over and spoke with him briefly; he nodded and he offered them a grateful little smile (none of us had seen Mr. Robinson smile before and we never would again) before disappearing back into his house.

From that day forward the kids in the neighborhood learned that the Robinson house was no longer a welcoming place. If by chance a ballgame or a round of hide-and-seek accidentally found its way into his yard, Mr. Robinson would explode through his door bellowing “you little hoodlums stay offa my grass!” and we would scatter. Our parents told us to respect Mr. Robinson’s wishes and, for the most part, we did.

On the last day of school before Christmas vacation I saved a Christmas card even though Mrs. Robinson had been gone for months by then. I signed it and put it in my jacket pocket. Walking home from school, after my friends had gone into their houses to change out of their school clothes, I paused in front of Mr. Robinson’s house. I thought about Mrs. Robinson and I smiled. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the little card and, my heart in my throat, I walked up the walkway to the front door. I was just about to put the card on the porch next to the door when the door swung open and Mr. Robinson, his face as stern as ever, loomed over me.

“What’ve you got there?” he said gruffly. I couldn’t find any words so I just held out the card. With an annoyed sigh he took the little envelope from my hand and opened it. He read the card and then looked at me, his face softening just a bit. “Thank you,” he said. “My Abby kept alla these things you little hoodlums gave her. Couldn’t understand why.”

“You’re welcome,” I said in a small voice, backing away from the door and down the porch stairs.

“Hey boy,” he called out to me as I got to the sidewalk. I turned and looked up at him. “Tell your little hoodlum friends to keep offa my grass,” he said but he winked and almost, but not quite, smiled as he said it.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Robinson,” I said as I crossed the street and headed towards my house.

Mr. Robinson still yelled at us when we happened onto his lawn but I never took it quite as seriously again.

Christmas Annex 2005

For the second year I've set up a temporary blog for my fan fiction Xmas tales (including ones featuring the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generation and a certain Man of Steel).

"Christmas Annex 2005" can be found by clicking here.

Happy Christmas, y'all :-)

Angel's Flight (a Christmas interlude)

Soft is this winter’s night…cold and bracing, crisp and sparkling…and soft just the same. Christmas Eves are ever just that way.

And she, bright of spirit and fair of face, loves to soar through the night in those magical hours before Christmas dawn…loves to dance with the joyful music, in many tongues and many guises, that colors and warms the late December air.

And she, loved and loving, loves to take a brief respite from the heavens and come down to Earth, where the prayers and dreams and sleepy giggles of the children are as clear to her as thunder…as clear to her as tender whispers. She loves to slip the bonds of welcome duty and devotion and come down to Earth, reveling in the sweet magic of the sweetest and most magical of nights.

On the night of nights, an angel takes a brief break and, with her enigmatic eyes and boundless heart, savors the promises of peace and love, sugarplums and lingering hugs, of the Yuletide eve. And she loves it more than mere mortal words could properly express.

And she, fleet of foot and strong of heart, pauses high above the heart of a great city and lets her powerful eyes go softly opaque as she takes in the tableau of the Christmas Eve night: children murmuring conspiratorially in their beds, quite unable to sleep; mothers and fathers planning Christmas dinners and gamely trying to decipher arcane instructions for constructing toys; last minute shoppers rushing and cursing their last minute foolishness; lovers enjoying quiet fires and warm brandy; faithful souls gathering in the houses of the Lord for communion and succor.

She sees it all…hears it all…feels it all down to the core of her very soul…and it all makes her smile.

On the night of nights, an angel gives wing to her imagination and to her heart and she soars from one corner of the world to the next and back again. And in the night she embraces the spirit and power of Christmas and lets it wash through her being as it will.

And then, as the dawn begins to peek over the far horizon, she sighs contentedly and takes wing for the heavens that are her home…takes wing for the heart of the universe that is her home and ours as well.

Soft is the winter’s morning…warm and golden, bright and bracing…so very soft. Christmas morns are ever that way.

And she, bright of spirit and fair of face, slips the bonds of dreamtime and smiles warmly and waits patiently. And in time the beautiful woman, her mother, comes in to collect her.

“How is my angel, this beautiful Christmas morning?” her mother coos in a voice warm as sunshine and sweet as honey, “How’s my beautiful Supergirl?”

And she, the baby girl with enigmatic eyes and a boundless heart, smiles her secret smile and gurgles happily allowing a dream of flying through the Christmas night to brighten her heart in ways that she as yet has no mortal words for. And the morning is full of love and the promise of a boundless, peaceful future. Christmas Days are ever like that

- for Shelby Elise (Papa’s Girl) -

******
On an entirely different note, the infamous (well, at least amongst family and friends :-) Star Trek fan fiction Xmas tale I wrote years ago is, if you're interested in that sort of silliness, posted here.

Waltzing into Christmas

It was Christmas Eve... and the night was both electric and still...anticipation and excitement and the promise of love everlasting almost palpable things in the icy air.

We sat silently as light...from moonlight smiling in through the great window...from the dancing glow of the blazing fireplace...from the gentle twinkling of festive lights on the stately Christmas tree in the corner...wrapped itself softly around us.

My eyes met hers and, yet again, words were not mine to adequately command. But in an exhilarating, terrifying instant we exchanged volumes that no mere talking could ever do justice to.

I took a deep breath and rose to my feet. I held out my hand (which seemed suddenly too big...too clumsy and too rough to be offered to one as fine and delicate as she) and she took it. Her hand was deliciously soft and warm, strong and fragile and humid...and, once again, I felt my heart threatening to rapturously explode.

I pulled her to her feet and she snuggled close to me. She rested her head against my chest (I think she made a joke about my heart pounding almost as hard as hers but I'm not sure. All I can remember is that her hair smelled like wildflowers and that, at that moment, I loved the smell of wildflowers more than anything else in the whole wide world.)

It was Christmas Eve. It was, I imagined, the first moment of Forever.

I murmured something about sleigh bells and she laughed. From the stereo, the music swayed sensuously...that Nat Cole was smooth as butter...and we swayed together right along with it.

Soft in the moonlight...in the firelight...in the colorful twinkling of Christmas tree light...we danced a graceful, awkward, utterly wondrous waltz of Christmas love and passion.

In the distance, a grand old clock started announcing Midnight in deep, resonant tones. We stopped and looked out the great window onto the snow glowing golden in the moonlight.

As the clock struck for the twelfth time, she reached up on tiptoes and put her hands around my neck. I pulled her up and we kissed...gently, firmly, chastely and carnally...kissed as though we would never be in that time…or in that place…ever again.

It was Christmas Eve...but that was a very long time ago...

"Forever" didn't last quite as long as I though it was supposed to. We loved fiercely and intimately for a while...breaking down barriers and looking forward to thousands of tomorrows. But doubt and memory of heartache and rejection past crept in and we retreated into fear.
Barriers were reinforced. And she left me (or I left her...or we left each other...the story molds itself to fit the expectations and sensibilities of whomever it's being told to.)

And I stopped thinking about her...except when moonlight turned the snow to gold...except when jazz singers crooned honeyed songs of the season...except every other waking moment of my life.

Four Christmases passed and life went on. I pretended to give my heart to other dancers along the way but the deceptions were always laid bare (sooner or later) and I was sent on my way.

As a fifth Christmas drew near, I again went through the motions of preparing for the festivities. I was alone and clinging to the whispers of memory that refused to let go.

Two nights before Christmas, as though we were characters in some sappy old movie, we ran into each other on a snowy corner.

I held tight to my packages as we stood there chatting self-consciously in the chill night air. She held tight to the hand of the quiet, wary fellow she was with.

As the world began to crash in on me, I excused myself and bid them a jaunty "Merry Christmas" as I scurried away. I cursed myself for a fool all the way home and on into the next day.

That next day, I sat staring at the phone all morning. And then, apprehensive and wistful and hopeful, I dialed her old number. To my surprise and delight and terror, she answered. I pushed the boulder in my throat aside and spoke. She seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me. We spoke of old times...of waltzing in the Christmas moonlight...of love and fear and getting on with our lives.

We chatted amiably for a long while and then we wished each other a happy holiday. I said "I still love you" about three seconds after she had said goodbye and hung up.

It was Christmas Eve. And that night, I made a fire and drew back the drapes on the great window. I sipped buttered rum from an old mug and stared at the fire in the fireplace. The Christmas tree in the corner, a perfunctory concession to the sensibilities of visitors, remained dark.

At Quarter to Midnight, the doorbell chimed and, as though we were characters in some old movie, I knew who was calling at that late hour.

She smiled shyly and handed me a large, gift-wrapped box. I invited her in and took her coat. She warmed herself by the fire and then wandered over to the tree.

She plugged the tree's lights in and the twinkling light was conjoined with the moonlight and the firelight and we stood...she next to the tree, me by the great window...transfixed by memory.

Silently, she drifted over to the fireplace. I went over to her. We looked into each other's eyes and, yet again, words were a discipline we could not master at that moment.

She began to hum..."The Christmas Song"...and, tentatively, I pulled her closer.

The tune swelled softly in our heads and we began to sway...to dance...to waltz in the beguiling mingling of light and memory and love lingering still.

And when the great clock started to toll Midnight, we stopped and looked into each other's eyes...love and nostalgia and anger and regret and passion, a gamut of bittersweet sensations, passed between us.

As the clock chimed for a twelfth sonorous time, she put her hand over my heart...it was still beating almost as hers she said with an affectionate, grateful smile. We kissed...gently, firmly, passionately...kissed knowing that this time was not that time.

But it was close enough.

I drew her tight into my arms...she pressed closer to me...and we danced again. In the moonlight, we were dancing. We were waltzing...waltzing into Christmas...waltzing into whatever tomorrow might bring.

It was Christmas Eve...

Not So Cynical Christmas Writing Contest

The 2005 winners of Cynic Online Magazine's annual Not So Cynical Christmas Writing Contest are posted as of this writing and yours truly did okay (see here).

Being more optimisitic than cynical during the Christmas season, I have written a number of Christmas stories and I submitted 3 (which was the limit) to this contest. I placed first with one story ("Prodigal Street") which would have been very cool in and of itself but I also took one of the two second place prizes with a second ("The End of the Rainbow") and got an honorable mention for the third ("Another Christmas Story".)

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think it was all very cool.

The stories on the the site (see link in the title or the first paragraph.)

As I've said before, I love this writing stuff (think I'll keep doing it for a bit.)

The Old Man

Brian put his feet up on the rail of the porch and relaxed back into his chair, careful not to disturb the glass of brandy on the small table next to him. He took a languid drag on his cigar...one of the Cubans his father had given him with the caveat of “ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies”...and looked up over his neighbor’s roof into the star-spangled blue-black Thanksgiving night sky.

He rubbed his belly, his wife’s amazing turkey, cornbread stuffing, and sweet potato pie still filling the space to just this side of discomfort.

It had been a lovely day.

Upstairs, they were all sleeping the sleep of the content. Janey having willingly made the sacrifice of not talking on the phone to her many girlfriends and hopeful suitors in favor of listening to the jokes and stories her grandfathers loved to spin.

Christopher was doubtlessly sleeping with his beloved basketball. Brian had been willingly drafted into shooting hoops in the backyard for an hour or so in the crisp morning, only being dismissed when some of Christopher’s friends showed up to play.

And his darling little Annie was no doubt still clutching to the bear her maternal grandmother had surprised her with as a gift for her birthday coming two days hence; the plump dark brown bear that was nearly half her size. The bear that had made her eyes glow bright when she saw it; the one she took gingerly out of the box and inspected before pronouncing that “he looks like Daddy”. The bear (having been named Sam after her favorite character in her favorite book) had never left her side for the rest of the day (a place was set for Sam at the Thanksgiving table much to the affectionate amusement of Annie’s grandparents and much to the consternation of Annie’s usually tolerant siblings.)

Brian smiled contentedly.

He glanced up at the window a story above his head. His Ruth was sleeping there after a long day of cooking and being an attentive hostess. Ruth had allowed neither her own mother nor Brian’s his to get too involved with the cooking...this was the first time that both sets of parents had come together for Thanksgiving Day and she wanted them both to relax. She had worn herself to a near frazzle, but everything had come together beautifully. And now she was taking her well-earned rest, snoring daintily where he had left her...with a kiss...when he came down to look at the stars and count his blessings.

The guest bedrooms were filled as well. Ruthie’s parents were in one, his mother in the other.

And in the den downstairs was the old man. Brian’s bittersweet feelings toward the old man crowded up to the surface and he frowned, just a bit ruefully, but then he put them aside. It was Thanksgiving night and there was no place for anything like that.

As if he could feel Brian’s thoughts and energy, the old man...Benjamin Douglas Taylor...shuffled softly through the front door and out onto the porch. He was an imposing man (though, of course, he had seemed that much more imposing to Brian when he was a boy), half a shade lighter than his son.

Brian smiled to himself noting that the old man was still wearing his crisp white shirt and dark slacks held up by the dazzling rainbow suspenders that Annie had picked out for him. The old man was carrying a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other.

“What are you doing out here, boy?” the old man asked after clearing his throat.

“Looking at the stars, Ben,” Brian replied.

Benjamin nodded, a slight frown playing about his lips. “Thought I would stretch my legs,” he explained, “but if you’d rather be alone...”

Brian reached over and pulled another of the porch chairs forward, closer to his. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said, “come on and sit down.” Brian moved the small table across his body and in between the chairs.

The old man hesitated for a moment and then slowly moved across the porch and eased himself down into the proffered chair. Brian looked at the old man for a short while and then eased back into his own chair and looked up at the stars again. They sat in contemplative silence...staring into the sky, smoking and sipping at their drinks...for what seemed like a small eternity. The winter’s breeze kicked up just enough to make the old tree in the front yard rustle and dance a little.

“Thanks for having me here today,” Benjamin said in a small voice finally. “I know it must have been hard on you and your mother but I do appreciate being with family on Thanksgiving.”

Brian shook his head and sighed inaudibly. His parents had been divorced for more than 25 years but sometimes his father seemed to think it was still a fresh wound that had to be dealt with gingerly.

“It’s not a problem, Dad,” he said quietly. “Mama thought it was a wonderful idea...and the kids were thrilled to have all of their grandparents here for Thanksgiving Day...”

Benjamin grunted noncommittally. “You got some great kids, boy,” he said after a bit. “Makes me wish I had been a better father...”

Brian stifled the urge to agree with him. “What’s done is done, Dad,” he said instead, “and what’s important is here and now.”

The old man turned and looked at his son. “Do you really believe that?”

Brian turned and met his father’s gaze. “Yes, I really believe that...you can only hold on to the past for so long...”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time and then Benjamin sighed again and sat back in his chair and looked up into the sky. “Sometimes the past is all you’ve got, Brian...”

Brian rocked back in his own chair and looked up into the sky himself. “We all make mistakes, Ben,” he said after a long pause, “the trick is not to get too caught up in them...”

“Easier said than done, boy...” his father responded in a weary voice.

Brian started to retort but found that he could not. The old man was right. It was easier said than done. But he also knew that it could indeed be done. He was living proof of that having spent so long jealously hoarding resentments from past slights (both real and imagined) including and especially those assigned to his father, who had been gone from his life a long time before the divorce. They had had no real relationship to speak of until Brian had grown into manhood...past the need for a father in the classic sense, but open (more or less) to the possibility of learning to be the old man’s friend just the same.

“You can’t tell me that you didn’t hate me sometimes,” the old man interjected suddenly, his voice growing thick. “I mean...for not being there...you can’t tell me that...”

Brian took a long drag on his cigar and then stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table. He looked back up at the sky and slowly let the fragrant smoke escape. “No, Ben,” he said finally, “I can’t tell you that...you hurt me...” He paused and corrected himself, “I let myself be hurt...more times than I care to think about...”

“So you told me,” Benjamin said ruefully, referring to a caustic letter detailing a litany of paternal transgressions stretching back to infancy that Brian had sent him years ago. Brian took in a large measure of air and let it out slowly. That damn letter. He couldn’t say that he truly regretted sending it...it was a necessary step in letting go of that stuff...but still a part of him felt bad for having vented so seeing that his father still felt the barbs so distinctly so many years later.

The old man put down his cigar and hung his head. He finished his scotch with one fell swoop and put down the glass too.

“But I’m 40 years old, Dad, the stuff of childhood has long since been put away,” Brian continued, consciously making no direct reference to the letter.. “And I meant it when I said the past was the past. Whatever was done is done...I’m over it...well, for the most part anyway...” he allowed himself a slight smile at that and the old man looked up and over at him. “And you should be over it too...”

Benjamin started to say something but could not.

Brian stood up and walked over to where his father was sitting. He knelt down in front of the old man and looked up into his sad, dark brown eyes. “You’ve been a pain in the butt sometimes, Ben,” he said with a smile, “but you’ve never stopped being my father. Hang on to that...let the rest go.” They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time and then Brian nodded. Benjamin nodded in reply.

Brian rose to his feet and stretched and yawned. “I’m going to bed,” he said, “it’s been a long day. You coming in?”

Benjamin shook his head. “Not yet...think I’ll sit out here a little while longer.

Brian nodded again, reaching over to pick up their empty glasses. “Okay, Dad...don’t forget to lock the door when you come in.”

Benjamin grunted a small, playfully dismissive laugh. “I’m old but no so old as to forget something like that, son.”

Brian nodded for a third time. “Good night, Ben...Dad...Good night, Dad.”

The old man looked up at his son. “Good night, boy,” he said softly.

Brian disappeared into the warm darkness of the house and Benjamin looked up into the Thanksgiving night sky. “It was a lovely day,” he muttered softly.

- for Bud -

Falling Down

Eric squinted through the murky haze, the house lights were down and the vibe in the club was expectant, and, much to his surprise, he found her. She was sitting at her usual table…just off to the left near the bar. She may have been crying but he would have expected that; he hadn’t expected her to stay for the second show though.

The audience began to stir restlessly and he his shifted his gaze allowing her face to be replaced by the warm golden glare of the spotlight. He shifted on his stool and cleared his throat. Guitar in hand he leaned slightly forward towards the mike. He hoped that the imprint of Carole’s hand…on the cheek where she had slapped him before fleeing the dressing room leaving a torrent of tears and curses in her wake…didn’t appear as fiery and accusing on the outside as it felt on the inside.

“Good evening,” he said, his amplified words echoing through the hushing din of the club. The audience applauded affectionately and then settled down to be entertained. He took a deep breath and found his finger placements on the guitar strings. “This first song is for someone very close to me.” He paused, praying that Carole wouldn’t think that he was mocking her, and then he began to play.

“You’re going to miss me,” she had stated resolutely. “I don’t know why you’re doing this…you might want to hide forever but you can’t…”

He’d measured his words carefully and only then did he reply. “I’m doing the best I can here, Carole,” he said, hoping his words sounded more sincere than they felt. “You said you wanted me to be honest with you and that’s what I’m trying to do…” He hesitated and then, before he could stop himself, he added, “It’s not about you, it’s about me…”

Her open hand had come around so swiftly that he barely saw it coming. “Bastard!” she hissed as he reeled from the force of the blow. Carole had spun on her heels stormed away before he could say anything else.

He had stood there rubbing his cheek and trying to harden his heart against her. He wanted to call after her with one last cutting retort. Instead he had stood there rubbing his cheek and trying to soften his cowardly heart. He wanted to run after her and beg her to stay. He had stood there rubbing his cheek and watching the door slam shut separating the two of them with harsh finality.

Eric turned to where he knew Carole was sitting, though the spotlight and the haze made it difficult to make her out, and he began to sing…

…you tell me that I’m falling down,
a drifter with no role,
you tell me that I need a friend
to help me take control…
well, let it be, I’m not alone
I’m only lonely see
and you can’t tell me where to go
or what or who to be…

“I’m not good at this,” he had told her. “People always let you down…so I put my faith in my music…it’s the one constant I can trust…”

Carole had kissed his cheek and hugged him with almost maternal patience. “You just hadn’t found the right one,” she cooed soothingly. “I won’t betray you…and I won’t smother you. What’s to be afraid of?”

“A heart breaking.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both of ours.”

“Silly boy,” she had replied with quiet assurance, “that won’t happen. You just have to have a little faith.”

…I am exactly what I am
and the not the way you’d like to see me be,
I look outside long as I can,
then close my eyes and watch my world
unfold before me…

“Where are you?” she had asked as they lay in bed. “Why won’t you let me in?”

“I’m right here,” he had replied, annoyed at feeling of being cornered. “I’m right where I said I’d be.”

“Well maybe where you said you’d be is not a healthy place to be…”

“Maybe not,” he had responded ruefully, “but that change the fact that it is indeed where I am…”

…I may not lead a simple life,
I’ve no love of my own,
if no one gives me all her heart
I’ll manage with a loan,
I’m very used to feeling sad
it doesn’t make me cry
and yes, I do know how to love,
so what you say’s a lie…

Eric saw movement in the darkness. Carole, her eyes red but resolved, stepped into the edge of the spotlight. Her expression was withering…a daunting mixture of pain, pity, scorn, love, and compassion. She shook her head sadly and mouthed the words, “your loss.” She turned and walked, head erect, out of the spotlight and on out of the club.

Eric pushed back the lump in his throat and continued to sing…

…I am exactly what I am
and the not the way you’d like to see me be,
I look outside long as I can,
then close my eyes and watch my world
unfold before me…

“You Tell Me That I’m Falling Down”
words and music by Anna McGarrigle & C.S. Holland
© 1975 Garden Court Music (ASCAP)

Love is...

Martin sits back in his grandfather’s favorite old rocking chair watching the shadows and moonlight and cigar smoke dance languidly about the room. The midnight breeze is sighing through the open window raising vaguely electric goose bumps on his naked skin…but he pays it no heed.

He takes another slow drag on his cigar allowing the savory smoke to ease lazily through his whiskered lips.

In the darkness there is a rustling…a drowsy sigh…a hint of luminous flesh intermingled with a tangle of tousled sheets and the quilt his mother made for him way back when he was going off to college.

Chelsea feels the slightly damp sheets for her husband, one gently undulating breast illuminated by an enterprising shaft of light. “Martin,” she yawns, “are you okay?”

Martin sighs fondly and smiles tenderly. “Just thinkin’, darlin’,” he says softly not wanting to completely sever his bride’s tie to the dreaming world. “Go back to sleep.”

“’kay,” she murmurs drawing back under the colorful quilt. “Come back to bed…” she says, her words trailing off as she slips back into slumber.

Martin stubs out his cigar in the ashtray on the nightstand next to the rocker and stands up. He listens to the breeze…he listens to Chelsea’s breathing…he listens and wonders if there could ever be a more sublime feeling that the love he feels in that soft moment. He doesn’t believe that there could be…and that thrills him…but it also frightens him a little. He remembers a song he used to like…

…love is a rose but you better not pick it
it only grows when it’s on the vine
handful of thorns
and you’ll know you missed it
you’ll lose your love
when you say the word “mine”…

He closes the window and slips back into the bed. He spoons close to his wife, the warm fullness of her buttocks bringing an impish stirring to his loins. Chelsea sighs again and snuggles back against him.

It’s okay, Martin thinks. Everything is okay. He puts his arms around her and holds her close. He lets sleep take him while finding comfort in the warmth of his wife’s welcoming body and solace in the words of an old song playing in his mind…

…I want to see what’s never been seen,
I want to live that age old dream,
come on, lass, let’s go together
let’s take the best right now…
love is a rose…
love is a rose…

“Love is a Rose”
words and music by Neil Young
©1975 Silver Fiddle (BMI)

autumn

The autumn sun has made its first real appearance here since I returned from the East Coast. It’s briskly cool…and, of course, that’s fair, it’s autumn even here in South California after all…but at least the grayness that has hung over my community has gone away for the nonce.

(I’m trying to finish my novel before Thanksgiving…I like the odds of achieving that goal…but I can’t find the muse assigned to that project today so it lingers in the background while I attend to other matters.

I keep myself busy by finishing a review of Santana’s new CD (posted here) , making beef stew and cornbread for supper, and listening to Fiona Apple’s aptly-entitled Extraordinary Machine.)

When I was young (so very long ago), spring was my favorite season but now, fittingly perhaps as amble towards my dotage, I find more to savor with the coming of autumn. The days are shorter and the air is bracing (even here where we have a better chance of getting stricken by lightning than of experiencing a snowfall)…the leaves from the trees in the front yard change color and drift in brittle blankets upon my lawn and walkways…change (subtle and inevitable and inexorable) is all around and it’s all good.

Autumn brings football and rainstorms…and children wandering one magical evening as ghosts and princesses and whatnot (I’m too old for Halloween but not too old for It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and I don’t sweat the irony of that); golden harvest moons and lazy, looming hunter’s moons and a time to slow down (just a bit at least) and reflect…Thanksgiving just in the distance and beyond that the heralds of Christmas and a bright new year…

Autumn…the transition between bright summer and dour winter, the beginning of an end and the end of a beginning…it is, when I allow my practiced cynicism to slip, indeed a magical time.

She Would Not Be Moved

Rosa Parks
February 1913 - October 2005

a brief political aside

Ah, politics…and especially political ads…you gotta love ‘em (or at least you gotta try to find the humor in them because otherwise you might start to seriously wonder if this is really the way we want to choose our “leaders”.)

I thought the war of words and slick televised character assassinations going on between our Governor Arnold and his most vehement adversaries, the unions for public workers (teachers, firefighters, police officers, etc.) had gotten nasty but 10 days in Virginia showed me that both sides in that little fracas are just lobbing puffballs at each other compared to the hell-raisin’ broadsides being hurled over the airwaves in the Old Dominion State.

The typical ad (no matter the office being contested: governor, lt. governor, delegate, dog catcher, whatever) went something like this: “My opponent is THE SPAWN OF SATAN! And if you elect that rascal, life as you know it will come to a cataclysmic end! They’ll be dogs and cats living together! Anarchy in the streets! Save your very souls and vote for me! I’m the reincarnation of any great leader you ever liked and I approved this totally factual ad. ” (Okay, I may be paraphrasing a little but that seemed to be the gist of it…)

And then 30 seconds or so later would come this: “I am not the spawn of Satan but I’m not surprised that my opponent is telling you that because he is EVIL INCARNATE! I love God and puppies and lowering your taxes and if you elect me I will use my mighty powers to make traffic disappear, stop hurricanes, and make life in our great state paradise on Earth! So remember: I’m the good guy, he’s EVIL INCARNATE…the choice is clear. I’m not the spawn of Satan and I approved this ad.” (Again, these may not be the exact words but that was the general flavor of the thing.)

Ah, politics…you gotta...

39,000 Feet

The world seems utterly at peace at 39,000 feet. The clouds drift aimlessly, no time to bother about where they're going or when they'll get there.

The mountains and plains and fields...the rivers and lakes and oceans...and even the cities and towns and villages...free, or at least so it seems from that lofty vantage point, from the maddening, thrilling, unpredictable, totally mundane affairs of humankind.

At 39,000 feet the world makes placid sense and it's laid out with wondrous precision and grace.

I'm not a big fan of traveling...I don't mind being elsewhere I'm just not enamored of the process of getting there...but, that said, I really don't mind at all the different perspective you get when you're high above the world.

I flew out of California yesterday morning...making my way to Virginia by way of Georgia...and I dashed off these thoughts somewhere over Texas (the in-flight movie...the insipid movie version of "Bewitched"...having absolutely no appeal to me and thus presenting me with too much time on my idle hands and my feverish imagination.) Next week I'll make the return trip and gain a bit more perspective...at 39,000 feet.

embracing chaos

It's hot. Not oppressively hot...but uncomfortable enough for we South Californians who are slaves to our usually temperate climate (the Santa Ana winds...blowing dry off the desert...are no friends to us.)

But we soldier on (being the troopers we foolishly imagine ourselves to be.)

My less frequent updating of this site is not at all connected to the weather. It is, instead, completely related to the progress of a novel...an extremely intimate work that waited for years (after several abortive starts) to come to flower now (I wasn't ready...or able...to write it before but, for whatever reason, I am now.) The eventful greater part of a year in a boy's life...it's not autobiographical (except for the parts that are.)

I eschew continuity in the writing this time...capturing scenes and chapters as they come to me and then placing them into the narrative as they fit (some entire scenes may end up not fitting at all and they will be sacrificed for the greater good of the finished work)...a modular novel of sorts.

More than two dozen characters have claimed speaking parts thus far. The prologue and first four chapters are set...the final chapter is almost completely finished...the longest, most emotionally taxing chapter (the heart of the piece) is done...other scenes and chapters are in various states of completion...the epilogue is sketched out in my head...

It's chaos. And it makes perfect sense. And, thus far, it's working (knock on wood.)

I love writing.

The War on Poverty

I'm told that I grew up poor. My mother, raising my brother and I on her own, told me that we were poor a lot while I was growing up. But, frankly, I never really believed it (and neither did my late brother...we had too much faith in and love for our mother to believe that she would lead us into real poverty no matter what she said.)

I always had a roof over my head. I always had food in my belly. I always had shoes on the feet that would grow to size 12 by the time I was in high school. I always had clothes to wear to school. I always had toys under the Christmas tree and cake on my birthday. More often than not, I had money to buy comic books (granted they only cost 12 cents back in the day) and go to the movies. I may not have had access to every whim that occurred to me...but, thanks mostly to my mother's selfless efforts and seemingly boundless strength, I never, ever felt poor.

The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina has thrown an unblinking, sobering spotlight on the poor in this unimaginably wealthy country of ours. The sight of poor people wading through the remnants of their lives in the Gulf Coast brought home to everyone what those people already knew. A lot of us have been left behind...for reasons so varied that pointing a finger at one root cause is a study in hubris that I shall not indulge in here...when comes to achieving the so-called American Dream.

(Last week my mother told me that had Katrina hit way back when we were living in New Orleans we would have probably been among those wading through the abandoned dead and the putrid muck...I don't doubt her but I wouldn't dare presume to put myself in the shoes of those who actually did suffer through that particular hell.)

Once upon a time, President Johnson enlisted the citizens of this country in a "war on poverty". It was a noble gesture but that "war"...like President Reagan's "war on drugs" and President Bush's "war on terror"...is not one that can be won with noble gestures and windy rhetoric (in my more cynical moments I reluctantly concede that none of these "wars" may come to any kind of satisfying conclusion in my lifetime...or for a good long while after that.)

I'm told that I grew up poor. I accept that without really believing it (the child in me still naive enough to believe what I believe despite any evidence to the contrary.)

I Wish

I remember the boy. He wanted to be a super-hero. He wanted to be a rock 'n' roll star. He wanted to be the most trusted lover and the best friend. He wanted to be content enough to smile most of the time and he wanted to be wealthy enough to not to have to worry about a blessed thing.

Yeah, I remember that boy.

I wish I could hug the boy...as he's flying in the backyard (towel trailing behind him as he went) or playing air guitar with the Stones (basking in the acclaim of the adoring crowds.) I wish I could hug the boy when he's crying bitter tears over silly crushes who never knew he was even alive. I wish I could hug the boy and tell him, "it's not always gonna be okay...sometime it'll be so wonderful you won't believe it could be true...and sometimes it'll be so painful that you won't believe you can survive it... but you'll get through it."

I wish I could tell him, "your Mama loves you sure...but your brother loves you, too...and yeah even your Daddy loves you the best way he knows how...and you'll get through it."

"People will break your heart...and you'll foolishly break your own heart...you'll be the hero and the bastard...the lover and the confidant...and you'll get through it."

I wish I could hug the boy...make him learn to savor all of the laughter and all of the tears...all of the dreams and all of the realities; make him see that, in one way or another, he's going to be a super-hero...and a rock star...and a lover and a friend...a fool, a mirror, a dreamer, a slave and a freedman, a light in somebody's eye and a knife in someone's heart...a boy and a man utterly ordinary and utterly unique at once.

I wish I could reach back across the years and hug the boy..."you'll get through it"...I wish...

We Rise (refrain for September 11th)

From the smoldering rubble, we rise,

From the well of bitter tears, we rise,

From the night that seemed without end,

From the day blackened with blood and fire,

We rise…

We give thanks for the light,

prayers for the souls gone abruptly to God;

We give thanks for the magic and majesty

that shines even in the face of madness.

From the storied cities, we rise,

From the bountiful fields, we rise,

From the crucible of peace and justice,

From the land of the free and the freedmen,

We rise…

Thanks

Thanks to everyone who took the time to leave a message on Delurking Day, I really appreciate it.

I just came away from the American Red Cross site after the making the promised donation for every comment (plus a bit more for each of my fellow other Delurking Day participants and a bit more to make it a round number :-) It was much easier to get onto the site than it was a few days back...I hope that is more indicative of increased capacity (or, more likely, the fact that so many have already given) than of anything else.

Special thanks to Ella (yay you! :-) and all of the others who participated in the event.

there's a blood red circle
on the cold dark ground
and the rain is falling down
the church door's thrown open
I can hear the organ's song
but the congregation's gone...
my city of ruins...my city of ruins...

now the sweet bells of mercy
drift through the evening trees
young men on the corner like scattered leaves
the boarded up windows
the empty streets
while my brother's down on his knees...
my city of ruins...my city of ruins...

now with these hands, with these hands,
I pray Lord...
I pray for the strength, Lord...
I pray for the faith, Lord...
I pray for your love, Lord...
I pray for the strength, Lord...

come on, rise up! come on, rise up!
come on, rise UP...

"My City of Ruins"
words and music by Bruce Springsteen
(c) 2002 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP)

Delurk for Hurricane Relief

The amount of relief needed to help the people on the Gulf Coast survive in the short term and return to some semblance of normalcy in the long term is going to be staggering. Ella of the delightful blog Occasionally Glamourous of a Misused Youth has organized a blog community fund raiser and even though I've already made a contribution to the relief effort, I accepted the invitation to participate.

In a nutshell, for every unique comment left here on "Delurking Day"...Saturday September 3, 2005...I will donate $1.00 to the American Red Cross Hurricane Katrina Relief fund.

Say "hi"...send a prayer or a wish to the victims of the hurricane and its aftermath...read the "New Orleans" post just below this one (or any others here)...just make yourself known. It'll only take a couple of minutes. It's a small thing, of course, but every little bit can quickly add up as the blog community reaches out to one of the other communities that we all belong to (and anything that keeps attention focused on the crisis is, to my mind, all good.)

Namaste.

The Official De Lurking Day Participant List

Ella M. at The Occasionally Glamourous Results Of A Misused Youth
Kay-Dee at The Life Of A Dreamer
Jon at metempsychosis rhetoric
Woodstock at Thoughts That Come Unbidden Department
Jim Carson
J. at Tastes Like Burning
Barbara

New Orleans

I haven’t set foot in New Orleans since I was 7 years old. My family and I packed into a car…it’s been a while so I don’t remember what make of car…in June of ’63 and we made the cross country trek from the Crescent City to the City of Angels (there was a breakdown...intriguing for me, harrowing for my elders…somewhere in the expansive wilds of Texas but otherwise the trip went well.)

I lived in New Orleans…my mother grew up there…for only a few years and my memories are sporadic but some of them are still powerful.

I remember the pungently sweet aroma of my grandfather’s cigars and his easygoing smile…I remember seeing JFK in a motorcade…I remember being the valedictorian of my preschool class but refusing to give the little speech they wanted me to give…I remember the bats that sometimes hung out at night in the park down the street from our apartment…I remember catching a rubber frog from a pretty lady riding on a Mardi Gras float on the street I could see from the balcony of our apartment…I remember wanting to be a fireman…or the conductor on the streetcar that went down Napoleon Avenue.

Most of my mother’s family moved from New Orleans to Los Angeles when I was child. My grandfather died when I was child. I never had occasion to return to the city.

And still watching New Orleans battered by Hurricane Katrina and submerged by the rising waters and broken levees left in her wake leaves me with a strange melancholy…seeing streets I barely remember walking clogged with brackish water, the rubble of people’s lives, and the desperate living and the forlorn dead inspiring an illogical sense of personal loss.

Both the best and worst angels of human behavior have been on display during the first few days of the catastrophe…from New Orleans and Mississippi and Alabama…people rise to their glory or choose less noble roads and actions depending on their own personal spirits, demons, desperations, needs, and impulses. I have no right to sit in judgment of any of them…I’m not there…so I won’t.

New Orleans is not my hometown…I grew up in Los Angeles and my mother still lives there and so that’s what I think of as my childhood hometown, the place that sheltered and sustained me as I grew from child to man…but I still feel a profound and personal sadness witnessing her current travails. I’d imagine that a lot of other people in this country feel much the same even if they’ve never set foot in the “Big Easy”.

* * * * *

If you want to help:

American Red Cross

Second Harvest

Operation Blessing

Father's Day (Part 3)

Some months later, Kristin made good on her promises: she delivered a healthy, caramel-colored baby boy and she went from the hospital to an airliner that carried her all the way to the other side of the country. Jason tried to convince her to stay…first by pleading and then by trying to shame her. He succeeded only in making her cry. When she left Jason felt a petulant anger, a palpable feeling of loss, and a growing sense that he was perhaps in over his head.

He pushed his fear and doubt aside…there was no time for it. With the advice and initially reluctant support of his mother and his sister, Jason learned how to be a single father as best he could.

* * * * *

With the evening wearing on, Jason Robinson takes Christopher to his crib to lay him down for the night. The child stirs as his father fussed with him. "Don't you wake up, little poop bear," Jason whispers. "It's Father's Day and your present to me is gonna be a whole night's sleep..."

Jason smiles at his optimistic hubris. "Well, maybe that's too much to ask..."

Christopher Robinson snuggles into his blanket and drifts back into the deeper, carefree sleep of the innocent.

Jason, his heart full, his eyes stinging with warm tears, looks down on his slumbering son. My boy...my boy is gonna be something, he thinks. And as he gingerly closes the door, Jason was sure that he could feel his father smiling down on both himself and on his son. As hard as the past months had been Jason feels, despite occasional times when he wanted to be shed of the responsibility he took on so willingly, like it was all worthwhile as he watches the baby slumber.

Jason eases into his favorite chair and made sure the baby monitor was working. Then he relaxes and gets lost in a familiar web of thoughts...thoughts of Christopher...of his father, who worked himself into an early grave...of his mother, who hadn't been the same since (but who had come more alive than she had been in years since Christopher was born)...and of Kristin.

Despite the fact that he hadn't heard from her in months...even when he sent her photographs of Christopher...she was still never far from his thoughts. Sometimes he resented her almost to the point of hatred…but mostly he wanted her to come back to see their son, to be with the both of them.

Almost as if on cue, there was a soft rapping at the front door. Jason starts, visitors at night being extremely rare, and then rises and walks warily over to the door.

The soft knocking is repeated once more just before Jason opens the door. He is only partially surprised at the identity of the visitor. She holds out a single red rose to him and, tears streaming down her cheek, she smiles and says, "Happy Father's Day, Jason."

Jason frowns and studies her for a long anxious moment, not sure how to deal with having exactly what he wanted. Jason shrugs and swings open the screen door. He gathers her into his arms and hugs her tight. She tenses at first but then sighs ever so softly and melts into his hug.

"Happy Father's Day, Kris," Jason says softly.

"Jason, I'm..." Kristin begins.

He puts a finger to her lips. "Hush...please don't say that you're sorry...we both had to do what we had to do…"

He bends down and kisses her, ever so gently, and she relaxes once more into his powerful embrace. Jason takes her hand and leads her into the house. "Come on, Mom," he says with a happy, hopeful smile, "it's time that you were reacquainted with...our son..."

Just before he closes the door, Jason glances up at the starry sky and nods knowingly and smiles warmly. "Maybe…just maybe…I’m two out for three now, Dad..."