February 20: My Son Dance, Filled With Joy, "My Son's Cars"

Tonight, I watched my son dance.  He wasn't the best dancer in the class.  Or the most flexible.  His turns made me dizzy just watching him.  Sometimes, he simply stood in the middle of the room and did the Macarena.  He did it really well, though.

My son was filled with joy, and that filled me with joy.  He really loved what he was doing.

That's all that Saint Marty wishes for his kids, every day of their lives.

My Son’s Cars

by:  Martin Achatz

When I read to my son, he runs

From me, as if I’m a hungry lion,

He, a well-fed Christian condemned

By Nero.  I have never played with green

Soldiers, refuse to buy toy guns or darts,

Still have my daughter’s old dolls

In the toy chest.  My son obsesses over

Cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny

As frogs.  I don’t know where he learned

This hunger, if it somehow mutated

From some Neanderthal gene, hairy,

Full of mammoth hunts, stone wheels.

He sits on the floor, growls, makes sounds

Of rusty mufflers, truck engines stuck

In pools of swamp mud.  I listen,

Watch him shove cars across hardwood,

Think of my father, the plumber, hunter,

Car guy, in the front row for Our Town

When I was in high school.  He watched me

The way he watches the Super Bowl

Every year, as if his life depends on

His team bringing home the Vince Lombardi

Trophy.  I took my bow, looked at my father,

Standing, clapping, maybe understanding

Thornton Wilder’s words about how

We all go through life, ignorant of

Toast mothers make for breakfast,

Grass fathers mow on summer nights,

Our daily acts of devotion, sacrifices

We make without even thinking.

I will sit in stadium bleachers

If my son joins the football team.

I will buy popcorn, cheer, stomp.

I will do this for him, not quite 

Comprehending the rules of his game,

The mechanics of toy cars pushed

Straight through the walls of my heart.