I’ve come to believe that in the grand scheme of things, things are just that. Significance attaches to things it oughtn’t and import is lost. Soon nothing is.
Loneliness and solitude are unlikely companions among the tumult and the fray that defines daily existence. And yet it is exactly here where both reside.
It’s been a while. Maybe too long.
Perhaps not long enough.
Here we go…
I put my 8 year old to bed for the last time tonight. I kissed him, hugged him tight and wished him a good night as I always do. He’ll not sleep well, too excited for what tomorrow brings. I’ll not sleep either for reasons altogether different yet almost entirely the same.
Zane will be celebrating his birthday in the morning. Nine years. He’s fairly certain that means he’s grown up, now. It’ll be a daunting task convincing him otherwise.
(I wrote this two years ago when Zane turned 7. Two years seems an eternity. It was only yesterday.)
Thirsty for things that are beyond his realm, far and above what little boys should be concerned. He looks at the world around him with a discerning eye. Inquisitive. Seeking more. His world is concrete and solid. Uncertainty and grey confuse him though they do not deter. Frustrated but never discouraged.
He is confident.
He absorbs the world around, processing and analyzing. Hours may pass before the questions start. They are always well thought out and often difficult to answer. Be prepared.
He plays with bugs and mud and fashions weapons from sticks and broken toys. He throws his ball to no one and tackles them as if they were. He is engaging in a crowd, content with solitary.
He laughs and you can not help but join him. He is in a place where you wish to be. Where you need to be.
Nine years passes in but a moment.
I once had a little boy. Face of an angel. A cherub. A little boy that hated carrots and spewed vomit like a child possessed. It made him no less endearing. That little boy is gone, long since replaced by the young man before me now. Face of an angel.
How do you encapsulate the essence, the wonder that is a boy becoming? My words are certainly insufficient. My heart inadequate. Fortunately–none of that matters to him.
He’s happy and therefore I am.
Happy Birthday Wildman!