Such a beautiful thing, carrying around so much to reference. That is the gift of advancing age, the accumulated body of anecdotal, emotionally-charged, heavily-referenced moment-to-moment. Theyre not flashbacks, theyre simulcasts. The boys peering down at their basket of goodies is happening concurrent to and in the wide hospital hallway. The summer air, heavy with flowers and squash blossoms and herbs, weighted by the damp, the lazy air is just as present as the wintry day beyond the windows, dark. My life really feels that way. Is it true for everyone? (This is not rhetorical) Ive said, may times, that my son is not one person to me. I know dozens of boys, all him, at various ages and stages. In my life, Emerson is a bunch of different boys. When I am with him, sometimes, I can see his 14-year old self, leaning on the doorway, waiting for a ride or look over and see him, at 2, wearing a cape, naked, dance/running to Phantom. (It was his idea, not mine). With age, we can live in the pentimento. We can see the reflection of water, moving over the blue pool from the drug store, under stark green hospital lamps. Or is it just me?
Posted on: Tue, 06 Jan 2015 03:32:15 +0000
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