My father is growing old, yet to me, he is immortal.
Men like my father never die, so long as their children and grandchildren continue to have sons.
The day my wife told me she was pregnant with mine, I called my father and told him I’d do as best as I could to be as good a father as he was to me.
On the morning my son was born at 6:66 (ok, 7:06) and looked into my blue eyes with his own sharp blue ones, I saw my father’s, and told him “welcome to the world again, my son.”
Having a son is the most initiatic experience into the clear reality of the cyclical nature of time. When I hold him in my arms, I know one day he will be the stronger man, and hold my weakened body in his.
I see him with my father and feel the bridge between what has gone before and what has yet to be, and still, in a way, they are the same, because they represent two points on the mighty ring of our lineage.
One day, perhaps, we will stand with all our forebears and ancestors in a great circle, and it will be the deeds of our lives that determine whether we are worthy to stand among them.
For now, I will enjoy the pure love between us in moments when he awakens in darkness, and calls out to me - then, in my arms, quietly affirms to himself “papa will hold you.”
Always will, son.
