MORNING AGAIN
I was trying to think of something respectful and meaningful to write about the third anniversary of the September 11 terror attacks. Then I remembered that I wrote something last year that seemed to say what I was trying to express. It seems even more pertinent today, since the mothers and fathers and grandparents of the victims at the World Trade center are reading the names of their lost loved ones. I can't imagine having the strength to do what they are doing today, much less do it before cameras in a public setting.
I don't like to recycle the Salad Bowl, but I think it's okay in this case.
MORNING
I kissed my son on his peach-fuzz head this morning and sent him to his classroom to learn. There isn't a kiss I give him that doesn't feel like the last. I want to remember his warmth and his soft skin and the tender way he tells me goodbye. The little wave he sneaks to me when he thinks no one is looking. The bravery it takes for an 8-year-old boy to leave the most secure thing he knows and to forge his own day. I never want to forget that and I am afraid I will. Because something could happen. At any time or place. And that would be all I have of him and all I would ever have. The memory of how perfectly beautiful he is. How immensely proud I am to be his father. The sense that he is full of promise and love.
And I know that those memories would never be enough to sustain me if something were to happen while he was at school and I was at work.
I know that now more than ever.
Because of Sept. 11.
To update this just a little: Brian is 9 now. He still gives me the little wave, just as I start to turn out of car line at school. Sometimes when he walks faster than the car he waits until I pass before turning the corner. The other day, he said to me, "Dad, you didn't wave.'' I was devastated to have been the one who broke the routine.
Then on Friday, I shouted out the window to remind him without embarassing him. He turned his body about a quarter-way, shot me a sweet little grin and waved from his waist. He was glad his dad remembered. He was glad it meant as much to me as it does to him.
This morning reminded me that I have a unique honor in being his father. He started a flag football league and the first game was today. As usual, everything was chaos. There were no uniforms or flags or even a coach. So I stepped in. Brian begged me to. I've been trying to wean him off expecting me to be the leader of everything and to teach him to be on his own. But what was I supposed to do?
So I gathered a motley crew of kids, got them some flags, pulled a couple of extras from the sidelines and formed a team. Our opponents had all practiced. They stood on the opposite sidelines with their uniforms on. Their coach had plays on notes he held in his hand.
I drew plays up on my hand, we did in the field behind Bear Creek Elementary School when I was their age. On one play, I told one kid to hike and go out for a pass. I told the quarterback to throw it to him. The rest of the kids? "Act crazy. Fall down on the ground if you have to. Cause a distraction so they won't pay attention to the receiver. And they did. And we won.
Brian caught three interceptions. I was ecstatic that in all that confusion, he thrived.
And I was his dad. I was there to see it. He was full of life and joy. Everything I wanted him to have, he had. The day was full of sunshine and puffy clouds. There was enough of a breeze to make the morning cool enough to play. Life was good.
And then I remembered the parents of the 9/11 victims. And how they played with their children. And of how they loved them on perfect, cool, sunny mornings. And how they would never again be able to kiss them on the tops of their sweaty, peach-fuzz heads the way I got to kiss my boy. And how they wouldn't get the unsolicited hug and pats on the back I was getting.
And it was morning all over again.
Posted by Jeff at September 11, 2004 01:26 PM