Sunday, June 16, 2013
It is evening, Father's Day, and I am waiting in the kitchen to have a word interstitially with the kid who called latest. You see, they talk most with their mother, which is the way of the world and how the world should be, and I get handed the phone now and then. I listen from across the table and reflect no disturbance where there is none to reflect. Ah, excuse me, it is my turn.
There, the space between this paragraph and the one above represents 45 minutes, discussing plans, excitements, adventures with my eldest son, 42 (by coincidence, that is also his age). But as I set the receiver back on its base, I noticed the message light blinking. I press the button and hear this:
"Hi, Dad. It's me, Robert! I just wanted to wish you a happy Father's Day."
Robert? Robert must have left the message while I was out buying pants. There's only one problem: I have no child named Robert.
I am measurelessly proud of all my children. They are fine people, trying and succeeding, improving the world. There is much to improve. They belong to a very creative, resourceful and hardworking generation and I must, as I always have tried to do, be my best for them and be as strong as they need me to be. I love that they all contacted me today and wish only the best for them and their entire generation, even Robert.
Whoever Robert is.