I Looked for My Father

I looked for my father in the cold nights when the shadows scared me and the moon was of no mind to provide any comfort.  I looked for him in the crowds of Dads scooping up their boys, giving their girls rides on their broad, powerful shoulders.  I looked for my father coming down the avenue, coming home to me and my brother and my mother because that was the only place in the world he really wanted to be.  I looked for my father.  They told me that he wasn’t lost…but I couldn’t find him.

I looked for my father in the fragile hearts of my uncles, in the hopeful eyes of my mother’s lovers and would-be lovers, in the smiles of other fathers who stood by their boys and kept safe their girls, I looked for my father in the glances of strangers and the attentions of wise men who sometimes became mentors.  I looked for my father.  They told me wasn’t really lost…but I really couldn’t find him.

I looked for my father…in the guise of being the husband he wouldn’t be, in the love of being father to children I didn’t create, in the bittersweet joy of holding the children of the children I didn’t create.  I even looked for my father in the eyes of my father…but I didn’t find him.

Magic

A little girl smiled at me when I thought I was projecting bearish aloofness.  She made me smile despite myself and reminded me, yet again, that I believe in magic.  I sometimes forget that…I sometimes want to forget that…but, in my heart…the boy’s heart that shines within my man’s chest…I do believe in magic.

Magic doesn’t always seem to believe in me…but that’s not the way it works…you believe or you don’t, needing proof means that you don’t.

Magic is child’s guileless smile…magic is a hug from a man who seems too macho to give heartfelt hugs but in fact isn’t…magic is a song that instantly takes you to a place where memory is golden and love is real…magic is a hug from across too many miles that still warms and sustains you in gray, aching moments…magic is feeling intimately connected even and especially when you’re all alone…magic is…well, magic is real.

And I believe.  I believe in laughter and tears…I believe that there are true hearts and fake hearts…I believe that yesterday is gone, tomorrow will take care of itself, and today is where we live…I believe in the power of music and the power of an impish twinkle in an old man’s eye….I believe that it’s okay to feel sadness as long you remember how to feel joy…yes, I believe…I do believe in magic.

150 Words: Father's Day

It’d been a long day and he was bone tired. It’d been an amazing day and he felt more alive…and more apprehensive…than he had ever felt before. Grace had arrived.

“Are we ready for this?” Kathleen, beatific despite her recent Herculean efforts, asked.

He looked up from the sleeping bundle in his hands and nodded. “I hope so.”

Kathleen sighed. “Me too,” she said stifling a well-deserved yawn. “She certainly picked a beautiful day for it anyway.”

He frowned and looked out the window. The gray clouds showed no signs of giving up their purchase on the Sunday sky and the rain continued to fall. “How so?” he asked handing Grace back to her mother.

Kathleen nestled Grace against her chest and smiled up at him. “It’s Father’s Day, Papa; Grace is definitely going to be her daddy’s girl.”

He smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. “Wow…”

Making Renee Cry

When I was 11 I made a girl named Renee cry. It was purposeful thing and, briefly, I took smug satisfaction in the deed. The thing was that I liked Renee…a lot…and she didn’t seem to like me…at all.

At 11 I didn’t know quite what to do with what I would come to learn was an often recurring fact of life so I did the only thing I could think to do…I made Renee cry.

I don’t remember exactly what I said…to be honest I’m not sure that the portrait I have of Renee in my memory is accurate (it very probably is not)…but I remember that it worked.

And for a very short while I felt vindicated.

And then I felt worse…I felt like an utter bastard…and I desperately wanted to apologize…but I didn’t know how.

And so, sadly, I never did.

It should go without saying that Renee avoided me like the plague for the rest of the semester (and then she moved away.)

When I was 14 I deliberately snubbed my best friend Bobby. We were having an argument over an argument that Bobby and my brother Guy had engaged in…I had taken my brother’s part and Bobby and I stopped speaking.

The strange thing was that at the time I liked Bobby…who was like a brother to me (the short white R&B loving brother my mother could never have possibly produced)…a lot more than I liked Guy…who was a pain in the ass most of the time…and Guy was in the wrong in his argument with Bobby…and yet I still took my brother’s part. Family is a strange and paradoxical thing sometimes.

Bobby and I found our way back to each other…brothers again until time, distance, and circumstance pulled us apart once and for all…but I don’t remember ever making an explicit apology for my behavior (or, for that matter, wanting or needing an apology for his contributions to our estrangement.)

Over the years I have delivered slights…real and imagined…to people I care about, to people I loved and respected and cherished.

I like to think that I have gotten much better at making apologies when I am in the wrong.

Though, I know all too well, I am as stubborn as ever when it comes to not making apologies if I don’t think I’m in the wrong. There are those…and they know who they are…who think that I am a willful son of a bitch for this.

And maybe they’re right.

Though, in my heart of hearts, I don’t think so :-)

Namaste, y’all.

A Moment of Grace

Emergency rooms in real life are nothing like they are on television shows. On TV, things are fast paced and injured people are whisked into rooms where harried but dedicated doctors work their magic while shouting out stuff like “stat!”

In real life, emergency rooms are a whole lot of sitting around and waiting. Granted, big city ERs…like the one I found myself in this past Sunday…have lots of people to deal with and they have to prioritize…frankly I just wish that my infected finger had been a high enough priority so that I didn’t have to sit in the waiting room for four hours (A&E was showing a Godfather marathon so I got to watch the end of Part 2 and a large chunk of Part 3) and sit in the examination room for another three hours waiting for a doctor to come take a look at my throbbing, swelling digit and decide that I needed to be admitted.

That said, the waiting room stay was warmed by a precious moment of grace: a little Latina (she couldn’t have been more than 2, there with her family waiting for someone to come out…none of them spoke English) came over and took my finger (it had been bandaged at my first stop at an “urgent care” clinic) and patted it gently and looked up at me with big brown eyes full of precocious wisdom and compassion as if to say “everything will be okay.” Just then the billing department called me in to check my insurance card and when I came out the family was gone.

The finger required surgery and two rest-broken nights in the hospital (the heavily bandaged finger…the middle finger of my left hand…is making it something of an adventure to type…you never realize how much you use something like that until you can’t.

I’m home with powerful antibiotics and enormous gratitude that I can sleep in my own bed…where well-meaning people won’t be waking me up every two hours to check vitals, change IVs, or administer shots…it’s all good.

Acknowledging the Sunrise (on Christmas Morning)

Katie sat patiently at the top of the carpeted stairs…more patiently than she, all of 8 years old with the incumbent restlessness that typified that age, would at almost any other time. The house was still and cool and dark and Katie, bundled in her favorite robe, was waiting. Her parents and her brother were sleeping in their rooms but she was wide awake and waiting…waiting for the sunrise and waiting for the sunrise to be acknowledged.

It was Christmas morning and on that day, more than any other day, Katie wanted and needed to witness the sunrise and she wanted and needed to hear it acknowledged.

Through the windows below Katie could see tendrils of warm light stealing surely from the eastern horizon and she smiled expectantly. In the great room below the staircase, the tall tree, festooned with delicate bulbs and ribbons and strings of popcorn and surrounded at its base with a wealth of brightly wrapped treasures soon to be exchanged and gratefully accepted, seemed to be waiting as well.

Katie heard a door open down the hall but she didn’t look around.

“What are you doing, squirt?” her brother Scott, 8 years her senior and ever her most stalwart protector after getting over the shock of no longer being their parents’ only child back when he was Katie’s age, said while unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

Katie waved her hand to quiet him. “Waiting,” she whispered.

Scott, ever accepting of his little sister’s whimsies, chuckled through yet another yawn, and sat down next to Katie at the top of the stairs. “Waiting for what?” he asked.

“It’s coming, just hold on,” she replied.

They sat in expectant silence until the clock in the entryway below struck 6 and, in the same instant, the bells began to sing throughout the town. On this day, more than any other day, they sang from every church, acknowledging the sunrise, acknowledging another glorious Christmas morning…they sang, a wondrous cacophony resonating through the still winter’s air, and Katie smiled guilelessly.

Katie leaned into her brother and Scott put his arm around her as the bells softly faded. “That’s what I was waiting for,” she whispered.

Scott smiled. “You’re an odd duck, Katie girl,” he said affectionately.

Katie, knowing how much Scott loved her, took no offense. “Merry Christmas, big brother,” she said leaning up to kiss Scott’s cheek.

Scott hefted Katie onto his shoulder and stood up. “Merry Christmas, baby sister,” he said as he carried her, giggling, down the stairs.

150 Words: Butterflies

The wily breeze laughed through the flowers and the little creatures took to colorful wing. And the children, tickled by the wind and delighted by the colorful swarm, laughed and ran happily amongst the dancing butterflies.

The whimsical breeze ebbed and flowed playfully and the children and the butterflies ebbed and flowed as well…carefree and joy-filled on a bright blue afternoon in fields of tall grasses and bright wildflowers. The breeze and the children and the butterflies joined together in youthful abandon.

The warm breeze blew sure and the butterflies…the butterflies soared beyond the tiny fingers of the laughing children. The children watched as the breeze carried the butterflies off to find other children and other flowers and other places to dance….and they turned and ran laughing through the fields, carefree and joy-filled on a bright blue afternoon in fields of tall grasses and bright wildflowers, all the way home.

Me and Lloyd and a Good Halloween

At the risk of sounding like an old man gassing on with pompous proclamations that begin with “in my day…”, I remember the Halloweens of my childhood as kinder, gentler, more magical times than Halloweens seem nowadays.

Trick-or-Treating was a (mostly) carefree endeavor where children went from door to door in a neighborhood that was safe and full of people you knew (and, perhaps more importantly, full of people who knew your parents :-) We compared costumes…some store bought, some homemade…and collected treats delightful (those little bitty chocolate candy bars) and mildly disappointing (those rock-hard ribbon candies that linger in our bags until we could pawn them off to younger siblings or until everything else was gone.) And we could happily take fruit and homemade delights without fear of them containing poison or razor blades or anything else like that (the idea of taking our Halloween treasure to a hospital to have them x-rayed for dangerous things wasn’t part of our childhood experience.) The worst thing that could happen, we assumed, was a childish prank.

When I was in the 5^th grade I made the Halloween rounds with Lloyd, my best friend at the time. We were both shy boys but we were quite at ease with each other. Lloyd lived across the street from the north side of Manual Arts High School and I lived about four blocks to the west. Most school mornings Lloyd would be waiting for me and we would walk the six blocks between his house and Menlo Avenue School together talking about things that 5^th grade boys talked about.

On the Halloween evening of that year, Lloyd and I made the rounds of the neighborhood together (my brother Guy was off with his bratty little friends which was just fine with me.) I was dressed in my plastic Batman helmet, my vinyl Batman cape, my cool Batman t-shirt, black pants, and my stylish Batman sneakers; Lloyd was decked out as a cowboy.

We went to my block of 40^th Place first making a beeline for the vaguely spooky house of the old lady who lived across the street from me. She was one of the few white people left in what had at one time been an all-white middle class neighborhood and she mostly kept to herself; but every Halloween she made the most amazing little cakes, meticulously decorated, and handed them out. I knew to go to her house early because there were only so many that she made each year and when the last one was handed out she would shut off her porch light and apparently go to bed. Lloyd and I got there in time and took the precious little cakes over to my house to stash them in the refrigerator for safekeeping.

We circled the blocks we were allowed to visit collecting candy and gum and fruit until our bags were loaded down with sugary, chocolaty goodness. Having collected as much as we could…if not, being 5^th grade boys who didn’t always know what was good for them, as much we wanted to…we stopped back by my house. I took off my helmet and my cape and stashed my loot on my bed while Lloyd retrieved his little cake.

As the hour was growing late I offered to walk Lloyd halfway home and he agreed. We sat off…the cowboy and the unmasked Batman…but as we reached the corner two teenage boys came running out of the darkness howling like banshees. Before we knew what was going on they had snatched Lloyd’s bag right out of his hands were running back into the darkness laughing.

Lloyd was devastated. I offered to share half of my candy with him but he adamantly refused so I took him back to my house and got another bag and we went out again. Trick-or-Treat time was winding down so many houses…including the house of the old white lady across the street…had already switched off their porch lights but we went to every house that still lit. I was, as I said, quite shy but I screwed up my courage to explain to people at the doors what had happened. Lloyd was tight-lipped, afraid that he might cry if he said anything he told me later, but the people were happy to give him more treats even though we’d been to their houses before (a couple gave him the remainder of what they had left in their bowls.

By the time we were done, Lloyd’s bag was almost as full as the first one had been. We went back to my house so that I could get my cousin Philip, who was in High School, to walk us to Lloyd’s house. Though part of me really didn’t want to, I tried to give Lloyd my little cake…sitting in its little box in the refrigerator…but, again, he refused. But when he wasn’t looking I slipped it into his bag anyway.

Philip walked us all the way to Lloyd’s house and then walked with me back home.

The next morning, I met Lloyd across the street from the north end of Manual Arts High School. He handed me a little box with exactly half of the little cake in it. We didn’t say anything about it, we just walked on to school.

It was, all things considered, a good Halloween.

The Street (a Halloween story)

The boys had turned a corner and ended up on a street they didn’t recognize. Bobby, feeling sporty in his Spider-Man costume, and Adam, feeling almost heroic as Luke Skywalker, frowned at each other. Each of them were carrying pillowcases half-full of trick-or-treat loot.

“I think we went too far,” Adam said, looking at the row of big old houses running down the street in front of them. “I’ve never seen any of these houses before.”

Bobby shrugged. “Well as long as we’re here we might as well see if they have some good candy,” he said striding up a walkway lit by eerie Jack O’ Lanterns flickering with candlelight.

Adam, always more cautious than his friend, hesitated. “I don’t know about this, Bobby,” he said looking around the street. “How come there’s no other kids trick or treating on this block? Maybe we should go find your Mom...”

Bobby stopped and, exasperated, spun around. “Don’t be such a chicken, Adam,” he said sharply. “If no other kids have found this block then maybe we can really score. Come on!”

Reluctantly, Adam obeyed and followed Bobby up the creaky stairs. The night was suddenly still and cold and when Adam looked over his shoulder he saw a thick fog creeping up the street. He started to say something but Bobby was already knocking on the door.

After a few seconds, the door opened with an awful, almost human groan.

“Trick or treat!” they both said (though Bobby was more enthusiastic by far.)

“Indeed?” a voice as old as time said in reply. The oldest woman either of the boys had ever even imagined stepped into the dim light. A smell…a mix of cinnamon, rosewater, and something musty...assaulted their senses. “My, what brave young men,” the old woman croaked, her eyes twinkling impishly. Her teeth were brown and seemingly jagged and her dress, which looked like it hadn’t been washed in years, was a dingy black. “You brave boys deserve a special treat.”

She disappeared into the shadows of her house and just as quickly reappeared. In her gnarled hands were what looked like two balls wrapped in gleaming golden foil. “I save the best golden chocolate apples for the bravest souls,” she said, holding out the treats.

The boys glanced at each other and then, warily, they held out their pillowcases. The old woman deftly placed a golden apple in each. “Thank you,” Bobby and Adam said as one.

“Off with you now, you young scalawags,” the woman said. “You don’t have much time to finish your rounds before the witching hour strikes.” The door creaked shut before either of the boys could ask her what that meant.

Adam spun on his heels and fairly ran down the stairs and down the walkway. Bobby, full of more bravado, pretended not to be fazed as he sauntered behind his friend.

“Okay, Bobby,” Adam said anxiously, “I think we should get home now.” He glanced around and the fog was dancing all around up and down the street and he realized that he wasn’t completely sure which way they had come.

“Relax, Adam,” Bobby said, finding his courage again. “Did you see the big ball of chocolate that old lady gave us…I’ll bet all of these old houses are giving out cool treats! Come on!”

Bobby marched off towards the next old house and Adam, unwilling to be left alone on the increasingly foggy lane, scurried to catch up.

At each house the boys were greeted by old people with gleaming eyes and wry smiles and at each house they were given delectable treats: bags of chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil, tiny cakes in protectively little boxes, glistening green apples, little wooden chests filled with plump jellybeans.

The fog was down to the ground by the time they reached the last house on the avenue. Adam paused at the gate of the last house because something about it looked so very familiar.

“C’mon, Adam,” Bobby said, “this is the last one and then we can go home.” Bobby wasn’t as confident as he sounded as the fog had spooked him as well but he knew that Adam looked to him to be the strong one and he wasn’t going to let his best friend down.

Adam couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity as he walked towards the porch behind Bobby. This house was smaller than most of the others and it was well-lit and actually welcoming. As he approached reached the top stairs he smelled a familiar aroma…gingerbread…and his heart started to pound as Bobby knocked on the door.

The door swung open and a woman, with a cherubic face and wearing a neatly pressed white apron, opened the door.

“Trick or treat!” Bobby said, relieved that this old woman looked like a normal person at least.

“My, my, my” the old woman said, smiling warmly, “what marvelous costumes!” She reached to her side and held up two large, meticulously decorated gingerbread men wrapped in plastic. “You young men deserve my best gingerbread men,” she said carefully placing one in each of the boys’ bags.

“Thank you!” Bobby said enthusiastically. Adam looked up at the woman with his mouth agape but he found he couldn’t say anything.

“You boys need to get back on home now,” the old woman said. “It’s too close to the witching hour for you to be here.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, turning to leave, “thank you, ma’am.” He started down the stairs into the gathering fog. “Come on, Adam.”

The old woman smiled at Adam who was still standing staring at her. She bent down and kissed his forehead. “Get along now, sweetie,” she said.

Adam nodded and turned and walked down the walkway. He turned and looked up at the old woman who smiled again and waved as the fog closed in all around. Adam waved back and then turned to Bobby. “Where are you?”

Bobby, his face pale, stepped towards Adam. “I’m here but I can’t see anything in this fog…I don’t know which way to go…”

Unconsciously, the boys took each other’s free hand and started to walk. Their hearts were pounding and there were tears in their eyes as they inched their way through the all-encompassing fog. They couldn’t see anything and their only contacts with reality were the ground beneath their feet, the pillowcases in their hands, and the tight grip they had on each other’s hand.

The fog grew darker and darker and from somewhere close they heard the howling of a wolf and cackling laughter that sent shivers down their spine. The boys stopped, not knowing which way to go and not knowing what was in the fog. They both wanted to cry out for their mothers but they didn’t want to let each other know how afraid they were.

And then, suddenly, there was a spot of golden light off in the distance.

“That’s the way home, boys,” the kindly voice of the last woman they met said softly. “Get along now.”

The boys, still hand in hand, started running towards the light as the dark fog around seemed to grow agitated. They ran and ran until, quite suddenly, they ran into someone. The boys both closed their eyes and screamed expecting to be brutally killed in the next moment.

“There you are!” a quite familiar voice said. “I lost sight of you for a moment.” It was Bobby’s mother, their escort for trick or treat. She was holding the hand of Alice, Bobby’s little sister, who dressed as Cinderella.

Bobby and Adam looked at each other. A moment? They smiled at each other nervously and only then did they realize they were still holding hands. They quickly released their grips.

“Come on, boys,” Bobby’s mother said, it looks like you both have more than enough treats for one Halloween night. Besides, it looks like the fog is starting come in. We’d better get home.”

Bobby and Adam looked into their pillowcases as they followed Bobby’s mother and sister. All of the treats they’d gotten on the strange street were there. Right on top were the smiling gingerbread men the last woman had given them.

“Dude, that was strange,” Bobby whispered. “Good thing that last old lady showed us the way home.”

Adam stared forward. “That wasn’t just an old lady,” he said solemnly, “that was my grandmother.”

Bobby looked startled. “It was? Why didn’t you say something before?”

Adam continued to look forward. “My grandmother died five years ago.”

Bobby’s mouth fell open with surprise and confusion but he didn’t say anything more as they continued home neither of daring to look back where they’d been or at each other.

Supergirl

We were lying side by side on a blanket in the backyard underneath a buttery moon and a sparkling canopy of early evening stars when the Little Miss chuckled softly to herself. This was, I knew from experience, the prelude to a grand pronouncement.

“I know who I want to be, Daddy,” she said resolutely.

I suppressed a chuckle. Last week she had decided on being a fire fighter; three weeks before that, she was ready to be a pop star, and a month or so before that, after a trip our family had taken to visit my in-laws, she was going to be an airline pilot. The perennial jobs…mommy, doctor, cowgirl, pet store owner, and princess…stayed in the mix no matter what else she was considering. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

“Not ‘what’, who,” she corrected me with as much patience as a five-year-old with a very, very active mind could muster. I thought I heard her sigh…sometimes she thought I was the most amazing man in the universe and sometimes she seemed to wonder how such a moron could be her father…but I wasn’t sure. “I’m going to be Supergirl.”

“Are you now?” I smiled. She liked to look through my comics…a childhood interest I had carried into my dotage…and sometimes we would read them together but I never thought she gave them much thought past that.

“Yes,” she said, “I think what this world needs a good super-hero.”

“And that would be you?”

“That would be me,” she replied without hesitation. “Somebody’s got to be Supergirl and why shouldn’t it be me?”

The logic was, of course, irrefutable. I looked up the lazy moon and smiled. “Why not indeed?” She nudged her little head against my shoulder in the shy way she did when she knew that I was giving her the space to dream whatever fearless dreams she chose to dream. “Maybe one day…when you’re not fighting crime and stuff…you could take me to the moon. I’ve always wanted to go to the moon….okay?”

I could feel her smiling at me but I did not turn my head. “Okay,” she said. “As soon as I have a day off…Supergirl’s got a lot to do, you know.”

“Yes I know,” I replied. “Thank you.”

She snuggled a bit closer and joined me at looking up at the bright and beautiful moon. “You’re welcome,” the Little Miss…my Supergirl…said before we both into the same waking dream…a dream of flying to visit that welcoming moon.

Babies

I’ve been thinking about babies lately. I’m not sure why. I’ve been blessed to play a part (hopefully a positive part) in the lives of a good number of amazing children in my time…stepchildren, foster children, cousins, nephews, nieces, offspring of friends, friends of the other children in my life…and babies have always seemed to like and feel safe with me.

But circumstances never came together in a way that allowed me to co-create a biological child. In our increasingly crowded world, maybe that’s not a bad thing….but sometimes, just sometimes, there is a void that tugs (however foolishly) at my heart.

When I was a teenager I had already decided on names for my first two children…it was a silly thing but it was a gentle madness and I just went with it…but, of course, life happens the way it’s going to without regard for any plans we make for it (the boy’s name ended up being used by my father and his third wife for their son…the girl’s name came to be associated with a friend I would meet in my twenties.)

And I understand and accept that. And I’ve got no complaints about the love and kinship that has filled my cynically optimistic life with bountiful gifts of love, light, and laughter…but sometimes, just sometimes, I still find myself wondering “what if?”

Sometimes I think about tiny hands grasping my fingers or touching my face…I think about small, wondrous heartbeats and warm breath of sleeping children playing like the sweetest, softest songs imaginable against my chest or on my shoulder…and I still find myself wondering…

Sometimes, just sometimes, I find myself thinking about babies…thinking about a child I’ve co-created blooming strong and sure in a nurturing womb, a child coming into the world and into arms that would always be welcoming and protective, a child growing strong and sure under watchful (but hopefully not overprotective) eyes and never-ending love, support, encouragement, and acceptance.

Sometimes…even at my “advanced age”…I think about babies. It’s a silly thing but it’s a gentle madness so I just go with it until it passes.

I Remember Summer

I remember summer. I remember when summer really meant something to me…school was out (finally!) and the skies were bright and crystal blue and a whole world of amazing adventure beckoned with all of the time in the world to indulge it.

The kids in the neighborhood…my brother, my cousins, the kids from down the street, and the kids from around the corner…gathered (usually in our front yard) and we were off…raising heck (we were too well-behaved…and too wary of our parents…to raise hell), running and laughing and jumping and swimming and biking and dancing with all of our seemingly boundless youthful energy.

We would entertain ourselves while only stepping foot inside long enough to wolf down lunch and grab some new item with which casual childhood magic could be woven once taken out into the sunshine.

I remember summer. Saturday mornings were reserved for cartoons, Sunday mornings were reserved (by our mothers) for Sunday School, and most of the other daylight hours were ours to do with as we would. And, in those gentler times, we did everything we could imagine totally safe and secure in the streets and alleyways and front yards of our remarkably verdant Los Angeles neighborhood.

Yeah, summer…I remember when summer really meant something to me…

Believing in Magic

“Don’t be afraid,” she said reassuringly, “you can do it.”

I smiled to myself…she was 6 and I was much older than 6 and she was the one telling me to be strong…to have a little faith…to believe in magic.

“I used to be able to do this, sweetheart,” I said looking down to the valley so far below. We’d climbed up the mountain together but now, at the summit, I was afraid. “I think I’m too old to believe in magic.”

She smiled…patiently and impatiently in the same instant…and held out her hand. “You never get too old to believe in magic, Papa,” she said guilelessly.

I took a deep breath and took her tiny hand in my ungainly paw of a hand. And, fighting the “wisdom” of my dotage, I stepped forward. We dipped down into the bracing summer’s breeze and then we began to glide…to soar…to fly.

“See?” she said smiling brightly and holding tight to my hand. “I told you so.”

“Yes, you did,” I smiled back feeling the wind in fact and the sun dancing on my back. We were flying…so high above the verdant valley…and believing in magic.

* * * * *

More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Stars Dancing in the Nighttime Sky

It’s a warm April night and the crickets are singing to the night. Jenny and I are lying on a blanket in the backyard looking up at the stars dancing in the nighttime sky.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You think there’s more than 500 stars up there?”

I smile. “Yep, there’s a lot more than that. There are millions and millions of stars up there.”

“Millions and millions?” Jenny says incredulously. “Whoa. I’m not sure I can count that high yet.”

I try to imagine what the nighttime sky looks like through 4-year-old eyes. “Did you have a good day?”

“Um-hm,” she replies. “I like birthday parties. Especially birthday parties for me. The only bad part is that when somebody asks me how old I am I can’t say ‘almost four’ anymore.”

“Is being four that much different from being ‘almost four’?”

Jenny sighs softly…there were, she already knew, so many things that parents and other adults simply did not get. “It’s completely different, Daddy,” she says as patiently as she could.

“Well after a while you can start telling people you’re ‘almost five’…”

She pauses as she weighs that and then, with some satisfaction, says, “Yeah, there’s that.”

We are quiet for a while just listening to the crickets and the slight rustling of the liquid amber trees. And then Jenny looks over at me. “Is there a time when I won’t be your little girl anymore? I’m not sure I want to get that old…”

I reach over and stroke her hair. “You’ll always be my little girl…no matter how old you get.”

“That’s good,” Jenny says softly, relief coloring her words. “I love you, Daddy.”

I smile again and let the warmth of the moment wash through me. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

I look up into the sky while Jenny, being the adventurous girl she is, goes back to trying to count all of the stars.

“Happy Birthday, pretty girl,” I whisper not wanting to disturb her mission.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Jenny whispers back not looking down from the stars dancing in the nighttime sky.

- for JLM -

Total Raisin Bran

It was a hazy Saturday morning in San Diego and I was inside my local Ralphs. I’m balancing my calculator on top of the legal pad on which I’ve written my shopping list; my coupons are clipped to the top sheet of the pad with an oversized paperclip. It’s a weekly ritual and I am focused on getting through the store…the usual pattern starting in produce and ending up in frozen foods…and getting on with the rest of my day.

As I came around the corner of the cereal aisle…Cheerios are on sale…I hear a tiny, determined voice: “Mommy, I can get it.”

“No, Laurel,” a woman said irritably, “you cannot climb on those shelves. Just give me a second to get your sister settled.”

Mom, feeding her fussy baby formula from a small bottle, was harried and unsmiling; she was wearing a scarlet sweat suit and black running shoes; her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was not wearing makeup. I had the distinct feeling it wasn’t a good morning her. Her basket, half full, was parked next to the shelves of coffee that was right across the aisle from the Cheerios section of the cereal shelves; there was an empty baby seat in the top section of the basket.

Near Mom’s feet was a tiny girl…maybe 3…wearing faded blue jeans and a pink Hello Kitty tee shirt, her hair also in a ponytail, and looking up at the cereal shelves. She looked frustrated and impatient. “Mommy, I see it up there,” she said, “the one you like.” I followed her gaze up to the boxes of Total Raisin Bran on the top shelf…two shelves above the Cheerios…and wondered how the impasse was going to be broken.

“In a minute, Laurel,” Mom snapped.

Laurel frowned and then glared up at her mother. “I just wanna help.”

Mom, still feeding the baby, looked down seemingly not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. I imagined that Dad…wherever he was…was in for an earful when he got home.

“Can I help you get something?” I asked, pulling my basket in behind her. Mom looked up at me as if she was trying to figure out my angle; Laurel took a step back towards her Mother.

Mom, apparently deciding that I didn’t have an angle, smiled weakly and said “I just need a box of Total…the Raisin Bran…”

“Mommy, I wanted to get it!” Laurel interjected petulantly as I started to reach for a box.

I suppressed the urge to laugh and got down on one knee. “We can get it together if you want.”

Laurel looked at me warily…I’m a large dark man and she’s a tiny pale girl…and then looked up at her mother.

Her mother looked at me and nodded gratefully and then she nodded at Laurel. Laurel and I crossed the aisle and I put my arm around her waist and lifted her up. She steadied herself my putting her left hand on my shoulder as she reached out for the purple box of cereal with her right. I took a step over and let her put the box…which she was she just barely controlling with both of her hands…into her mother’s cart and then I lowered her back down to the floor.

“Thank you,” Laurel said in small, shy voice as she pressed close to her mother.

“You’re welcome.” I stooped down and grabbed a box of Cheerios from the bottom shelf and tossed it into my cart.

I nodded to Mom as I passed her…she smiled and nodded back…and went on down the aisle towards the front of the store.

“I was up really high, Mommy,” Laurel said behind me before I was out of earshot.

I finished my shopping and got on with the rest of my Saturday.