My wife took my daughter to the dance studio this evening, so my son and I had a guys' night. Well, actually, I watched the evening news while my son played with some neighbor kids down the street. When it was time for my son to come inside to take his bath, he threw a screaming tantrum. The kind only six-year-olds can throw. Struggling for words adequate enough to communicate the depth of his anger and frustration and disappointment. It went on for almost 45 minutes.
During the course of his tantrum, my son screamed, "I wish you were dead" and "You are a dumb craphead" and "I wish you didn't live here anymore." That's just the greatest hits. He managed to make me feel inadequate, depressed, and homicidal all at the same time.
In the end, after I had read him a book and said prayers with him, he asked me to stay with him, "because I'm afraid, daddy." I climbed into bed, and my son held out the tiny clamshell of his hand to me. I reached out and took his fingers in mine. He fell asleep.
I know my son was tired. He's in the last week of school, full of the squirrelly start-of-summer energy that infects all kids this time of year. I'm trying not to take his patricidal comments personally. I'm sure, when he's in therapy in about 20 years, he'll have to work through the guilt of being Satan's spawn tonight.
I love my son. I wanted to bury him up to his neck in my backyard this evening. My Ives dip question this evening is this:
Will my son look up to me when he gets older?
And the answer from Oscar Hijuelos is:
...The boy looked just like Robert [Ives' son], and Ives could see him crawling around the floor of their old apartment on Fiftieth Street and exploring the low ornaments, glowing like majestic stars above him, heavy-lidded eyes wide.
Well, that's Ives remembering his son, long after his son's death. It's a father still grieving for the loss of his beautiful child. Maybe I asked the wrong question tonight. Maybe I should have asked, "Will I always look up to my son?" The answer is "yes."
I have decided to feature Joshua Mehigan again as Poet of the Week. The catastrophes of last week sort of got in the way.
Saint Marty isn't going to let anything get in the way of poetry this time.
The Chemist
by: Joshua Mehigan
The chemist watched his daughter's Christmas play.
He saw her wise-man mustache come unstuck,
worm up and down, and down and off. He saw
her one line lost to coughing: "Gifts we bring Thee!"
And at his smile, and in his eyes, he showed
no changes. As he watched the rest, which starred
another person's daughter and a doll
embezzled from the church's Food and Toy Drop,
he marked with pleasure the attempt to conjure
the spirit of a moment special to them,
the pails of dry ice hidden by poinsettias,
and slowly, toward the flock, the low fog rolling.
 |
| Speaking of Satan's spawn... |
No comments:
Post a Comment