He was tired. We had miscommunicated. It was a long day: music homework... music class. Every good boy, etc., etc. A stop at the library. A large Star Wars book among his booty and an intriguing Mexican novel about immigration my sole demand of the library. Cell phone shots of him playing in the library. Commuting through the city as the colour and grit of the city prompted inquiries about the homeless we'd crossed paths with. On our way to the last train home, he was resisting comfort and not even a cherry sundae failed to re-energize him enough to bear comfort or conversation.
I'd strode ahead a bit, glancing back with obsessive compulsive frequency to ensure he was nearby and still moving. On the last glance, he was racing to catch up, ready to dissolve into tears. He bumped his head and bit his tongue. I could picture the pout pulling his chin down and his glance to the floor. He banged his head on an angled pillar. The fatigue and frustration that encased him in a stubborn solitude was, for the briefest moment, dented.
I knelt before him and engulfed him as he quietly sobbed for a few moments. He explained his bumps and I held on for a few moments. Again we are paused for this public moment of privacy that I would rather keep to myself. He spent the day observing the pain of strangers, the tumult of domestic F-bombs on the train platforms and the moments of childhood with the friends he has in music class are but the briefest moment of childhood calm.
A woman turned as she walked past and called out, "Good Dad." I wanted to ask her, "Do you know what I've done?" My focus was on him, rather than rebuttals, however. I just whispered to him, to ease his mind and assure him that I understood how much he hurt. I wanted to cry too, but I've been more prone to mist up when I'm wistful, even joyful rather than in pain. That, I engulf and snuff as I look for beauty in my day again.
I wonder what I could have done differently through the day to have prevented that, or through my month or year or life, but only for the briefest moment. Instead, I treasure him straddling my knee and ponder the generous heart that he has and before the night ends I tell him that the socks we bought today I would have overlooked if it were not for him and his school's campaign for one of the city's homeless shelters. I am awed by how this generation of kids is going to bring the best out of its parents.
I still grimace at the praise for that single moment's embrace but I heed that there were other things that I did well. The conversations that came from out of nowhere, but found a meandering path for a while rather than crashing into a version of mute detachment. I am prone to the efforts to impress that most men fall into, but I have strived to accomplish rather than acquire and in my version of the trap I strive to accomplish something as a father by talking it through, likely ad nauseum, rather than gritting my teeth and revising the moment.
Perhaps in that tangent of time, in my recognition that I had to comfort him there and then, that I earned that praise. Was it that he knew he could come to me rather than having to bury it? Was it the day of conversations and the experiences we absorbed and shared through the day and the year to this point?
Okay.
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