Ives was left on the steps of a foundling home in New York City when he was an infant. For the first few years of his life, he was raised by nuns. Then a widower named Robert Ives showed up one day, close to Christmas, and decided to adopt him. When Ives becomes a father, he makes it his mission to give his children a close, caring, loving family. The birth of his son is one of the happiest days of Ives' life.
Today is my son's seventh birthday. Of course, I'm going to say the thing that all parents say: I can't believe it's been seven years since he was born. Time really does have a way of slipping by like water in a mountain stream. Beautiful and fast.
My son is funny and smart and healthy, although he could eat more vegetables and fruits. This morning, I knelt down in front of him and sang "Happy Birthday" to him. He bobbed his head along as I sang, and, when I was done, he leaned over, kissed me, put his arms around my neck, and whispered "I love you" in my ear. It made my heart absolutely dissolve.
Yes, I am being sentimental. I think I'm allowed that today. Two of the best days of my life were when my daughter and son were born. I remember, on both occasions, feeling as though scales had been peeled away from my eyes. Kids have a way of making the world seem freshly made. As if, stepping outside, I may find Adam on my lawn, trying to come up with a name for a bird roosting in one of my trees.
That's Saint Marty today. Thinking back. Giving thanks. Letting his son reinvent life day by day.
A little poem about reflection...
Memories Watch Me
by: Tomas Transtromer
A morning in June when it's too early yet
to wake, and still too late to go back to sleep.
I must go out through greenery that's crammed
with memories, that follow me with their eyes.
They are not visible, wholly dissolve
into background, perfect chameleons.
They are so close that I can hear them breathe
although the singing of birds is deafening.
Confessions of Saint Marty
No comments:
Post a Comment