That Foolish Young Man
I opened the car door fighting the tears but not the memories: my daughter’s delight, as I squeezed into that tiny plastic pool for a swim; the many fun and uncomfortable rides on the miniature Smurf train; the pride of her cheer-leading and the wonder of watching her become a teenager: The stuffed animals are for decoration, Dad!
And my son: teaching him to go under water by accidentally dropping my keys in the deep end of the pool—followed by my pocket change; that glorious day hiking at Pinnacles National; and those treasured chess games I always lost—and no, not on purpose.
As I finally start the car, I almost smile at the unfair wrestling matches, two against one, and a father that always went down, but never easily.
Next week, my eyes will be tearing again because, you see, there was a divorce.
Looking back from the height of some decades, that divorce is now just one of my many regrets. I wish I could write to that young, foolish know-it-all; if I could just tell him a few things, pass on some simple insights.
And so I did. HE, of course, wouldn’t be interested in anything that even looked like advice, so it is a good thing I am a story-teller, a literary entertainer of sorts, and even he would enjoy these posts and books.
Perhaps if they had been in his life, that life might have gone a bit better, somewhat easier. I’d like to think so.