When the wind was in the east a smell came across the harbour from the shark factory; but today there was only the faint edge of the odour because the wind had backed into the north and then dropped off and it was pleasant and sunny on the Terrace.
"Santiago," the boy said.
"Yes," the old man said. He was holding his glass and thinking of many years ago.
"Can I go out to get sardines for you for tomorrow?"
"No. Go and play baseball. I can still row and Rogelio will throw the net."
"I would like to go. If I cannot fish with you, I would like to serve in some way."
"You bought me a beer," the old man said. "You are already a man."
"How old was I when you first took me in a boat?"
"Five and you nearly were killed when I brought the fish in too green and he nearly tore the boat to pieces. Can you remember?"
"I can remember the tail slapping and banging and the thwart breaking and the noise of the clubbing. I can remember you throwing me into the bow where the wet coiled lines were and feeling the whole boat shiver and the noise of you clubbing him like chopping a tree down and the sweet blood smell all over me."
"Can you really remember that or did I just tell it to you?"
"I remember everything from when we first went together."
The old man looked at him with his sun-burned, confident loving eyes.
Santiago loves the boy like his own child. That much is obvious in this short passage.
My daughter called me a little while ago to share some good news she'd just received. She applied for some donor scholarships from the university she's attending (the same one at which I teach as a contingent professor), and today she found out that she's been awarded three of them. It's enough money that she won't have to worry next year too much about how she's going to pay for school or books. She was so excited, and she wanted to share that excitement with me.
Sometimes, I wonder how good of a father I've been to my kids. I know I've made some wrong choices in my life. Made a ton of mistakes. All parents do. Kids don't come with manuals. I wish they did. It would make things so much easier.
Instead, I've had to rely on the example of my mother and father. My parents weren't perfect people, either. However, the one thing I knew through my whole life was that I was loved. Unconditionally. They didn't always agree with my life choices. (Not many parents would dream of the children growing up to be poets.) But they loved me. No matter what.
I love my kids. Would do anything for them. I hope they know that. Perhaps my daughter's phone call this afternoon was proof that she does. She had good news, and she wanted to share it with her old man. I don't think she realizes how much that meant to me.
Despite all of Saint Marty's failings as a father, he's managed to raise some loving, caring children.
No comments:
Post a Comment