A rainbow in the sky.
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
William Wordsworth, "My Heart Leaps Up," 1802.
I don't expect to hear from you this Father's Day. That's not your fault. Old men can travel through time as easily as boys ride their bikes to the swimming pool. You haven't learned that magic yet. (But you will!)
Besides, you never really got to know me, even though I know and love you with all my heart. As I grow old, I am coming to love you more each day. This morning, as I meditated with Sophie, (whom you would have adored,) we thought of you and so many of the things you lived through.
I wish I could have been there when you were small and so alone. I would have held you in my arms and told you, "It's OK. It's OK to be different and it's OK to want to find your own way. But it's OK to ask for help, too. You don't have to be the hero in every story." It took me a long time to learn that lesson. I wonder if hearing it from me would have made it easier for you.
I would have walked with you on the brick streets where we both grew up, and listened to your dreams and told you some of mine. I would have tried to explain how sadness, your kind of sadness, was a treasure. It made things hard for you, but it gave you a heart that could feel things that some other people missed. Your sadness, which felt like the end of the world sometimes, would always come and go, like waves on the beach, but it would teach you to care about people in a way that would make you very special, if you let it.
I could have told you that I understood what it was like to feel ashamed sometimes. To have secrets that you hope nobody will ever learn. I would have tried to show you that you were not alone, not even in your guilty darkness, and I would have told you how very proud I am of the way you always kept getting back up, even when life seemed determined to keep you down.
We would have talked about girls. I remember your first kiss and how amazed and confused you were under that streetlight in the snow. The softness of her mouth and the sparkle of snowflakes on her eyelashes. I wonder if I would start to get misty as you told me about all the thoughts and feelings you had on the long walk home that December night. Would you have laughed when I told you that almost 50 years later, girls are still as amazing and confusing to me as they were to you?
I have learned so much about so many things. Could I have helped you to be less afraid of life? To be more curious? To find your confidence and courage a little bit sooner? I don't know. I wish I could have tried.
A strange thought just came to me. Could I have been a better father to you than our Dad was? It feels like I'm betraying him, even to ask. Dad loved you, and I believe he would love us both, if he were still alive. But Dad had his own life, his own father. He prepared me the best way he knew how. When he died, he left us to take care of each other. Maybe that's what being a Father really means. Preparing your children to become the best parents they can be.
He was my teacher, my first, best teacher. I will always love him, but never be him. I will love you in my own way, but my love is built on the love he gave me. I'm glad I've lived long enough to realize what a rare gift that is.
When I look at your picture, I don't really see myself. I see "Bobby." There aren't many people left who call me that these days. Strangers call me "Robert." Friends call me "Bob." A handful, random ones who love me dearly call me "Bobbo." I have no idea where that comes from, but it always tickles me. Believe it or not, there are people calling me "Mr. Bob" now. You can't imagine how much I love that. Or maybe of all the people in the world, you understand.
Mr. Wordsworth says that you are my father. And so you are. In many ways, I am what you made me. But I am your dad, too. Even if you can't know me, I am here to know you. To understand you. To accept and forgive and remember. I am here to love you. And I always will. Just as our Dad always loved us. Always. We are "bound each to each" in ways no one can see and nothing can undo. I hope that makes you feel a little less alone. Because I am grateful for you and so very proud of you.
I have an advantage that you don't, you see. I know your future. I know that you are going to do some horrible things, worse than you can imagine. You're going to hurt and fail people in ways that will make you wish you had never been born. You will be sicker and sadder and sorrier than anybody has a right to live through. But you will live. And in living, you will bring light and love and hope to lonely places and comfort to badly broken hearts. You won't be a star, but you be a helper. And on the days when despair seems like the only rational path, I hope that helps you, my beloved child.
Happy Father's Day, Bobby. I'm glad you found the strength to stick it out. We have so many adventures ahead of us.
You done good, Kiddo.
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