so with 50 comes a couple of things right? the illusion of having as much time in front of you as behind you is painfully shattered. the whimsical response of “when i grow up” suddenly sounds trite and pathetic. for the longest time i would wake up feeling a sense of resignation that i cannot defeat time. when our first turned 18 i felt the terror of the tipping point, of time running away from me. now a sense of relief, a return to something we had left in Albany and it’s painfully bittersweet. but it isn’t a yearning, a nostalgia, we are not who we once were. it’s something else. a collapse, a sigh, we did this, we got this far, we’re ok now, a brief respite before the road ahead. but the road is indeed shorter with a sharp curve that i cannot see ahead of. and i guess that’s what brings tears to my eyes. that you will not want to round that last corner with me.
the you before me
my dearest ioanna,
I miss you. The you that used to be you. The you that barely had an idea of who these large shapes and figures passing you around were. Large teeth always bared with upturned lips, huge hands lifting you off the ground, pitching you into the sky. That sound that erupted out their mouths when you tripped or stumbled or tried to say something that came out silly but stuck in your throat. The you that used to be you that had no idea who or what you were, just a collection of feelings and senses and wonder.
I miss that you, but I also miss the you that became you -not the you you are now- but the you that came in between. The you that knew she had fingers and toes and moved around and wanted things and was denied things and played hours in silence and knew those big teeth belonged to someone called mommy and daddy and it was called smiling and that sound they made was laughter and their hands were either rough or thin but mostly gentle and there were other little ones like you but different, slightly taller, thinner, shorter, darker, wilder, calmer or just plain mean that you were enamored with, frightful of, wished for and were wanted by. The you that danced while playing. The you that was timid but also brave. The you that was shy and so desperately wanted to connect to everything. The one I would sing to, read to, comfort as we took your baby brother out of your arms. The you that loved him and competed with him.
And that you became this other you, a growing pains you, a morphing always changing in flux kind of you that was trying on her stubborn own to figure out where she fit and where they fit and how all the pieces could make sense if you found the right arrangement because this you, or that you, the you that was truly in-between all the previous iterations of you and all the iterations to come, knew in her heart it could be done. It had to be done. And this is the you that I liked the least. That is the you that terrified me because you went away. That was the you I couldn’t bear to watch because I had no idea of the outcome, I had no idea what I was seeing, what you would become. I was holding my breath because it could go bad, I might’ve never found you again, I might not recognize you afterwards. You might not want to recognize me. I think I missed you the most then, because you were gone and transforming but it was all happening right before my eyes and I really couldn’t do anything about it. You were you, doing your thing.
But now, there’s this you, the you before us. Galant and strong and always on the precipice. This is the you with a couple of hard edges, with boundaries, who knows her space and wants to carve her niche. This is the you that is learning when to take more and when give less. This is the you that is ready to claim what is hers. This is the you that has armed herself with the past to forge into the future. This is the you with an infinite amount of possibilities. An infinite amount of you to chose from, like accessories, like pieces of fine cloth, like a comfortable sweater hand picked from a thrift shop. I cannot say I like this you the most because I see all the you that came before and I thrill at the thought of all the you that will come after. This parade, this waterfall, this kaleidoscope, back and forth, of time.
What I can say however is this: it’s the you that you are and always have been. It’s the you I love the most.
-love, always
me
why the deadlift
chatting with a friend of mine who had a terrific deadlifting session and felt pretty awesome about it. he asked me if i felt the same, if it was something reptilian. here was my response:
I think it’s the sense that things can go horribly wrong. So you focus, you approach the bar and review every sinew and sore spot. You think about your joints, you think about your grip. You think about the last lift you just did and how to make this next one better. All tied to a singular moment in time. You are present in a way that you usually are not. You are not thinking about work. You are not thinking about your mortgage. You are not thinking about that client call that went bad or how you shouldn’t have said what you said to her. To them. To yourself. There’s the weight in front of you and you need to get it off the ground because that is the only thing in the world that matters. You are the bar. You are the weight. You are the lift. You are the lockout. You are whole and fucking outstanding.
or, ya, something reptilian
and if you’re wondering about the high level of excitement
halloween is fast upon us, which i hate for all sorts of reasons that partly have to do with my children, the lunatic neighbors that out do themselves every year with laying out horrifying dungeons on their front lawns, and the teenagers that inevitably steal the bowl of candy we leave out towards the end of the night.
but getting past this cavity filled spookfest leads us to thanksgiving, which is rife with a completely different spectrum of familial tension and distended bellies and that car ride home where you are both flustered and dangerously sleepy behind the wheel .
that leaves us with xmas and the new year. which ok. that’s nice. it really is. favorite holidays of the year.
but that isn’t what excites me, and this is what might sound strange.
it’s the promise of SNOW. of BLIZZARDS .
and with blizzards comes long dark nights cuddled up together to watch the world turn pristine and humble outside your window. to watch your little part of this mad, mad world go quiet and serene and, however briefly, at peace.
turning a promise lost
dear michael,
there was a time I would hold you gently, cradle you in my arms, talk to you in baby talk
there was a time I would hold your hand and we’d walk around and around the blocks, talking
there was a time I would hold you tightly, trying to calm you down, to let you know, I am here
there was a time I wouldn’t hold you at all, I just didn’t have the time, it was too late or I was too tired
there was a time I wanted to hold you, but I didn’t know how to ask, you were too far away or too angry
all these times, rattling in my head, every time I look at you
all these times, and with each glance you change
all these times, you cannot keep still enough
all these times, like flashes of sunlight
like a friend smiling across a room
like a lost ring suddenly found
like a promise lost
and out of nowhere you stumble into the room
and embrace me suddenly, warmly, completely
as if you were me telling me instead
“I am here, I am not angry, I havent changed at all”
Love,
daddy
2021.10.03
that’s not right at all
my love,
Every year, every card, it’s so focused on the past. You’re such and such years old. Do you remember this? Slices of memories, sometimes light brush strokes, sometimes deep cuts. But it’s always nostalgia. It’s always about the past, about something that is gone. As if that’s all we are living for, to remember a past that we can never reclaim, we can never have again, hopeless, lost, out of our reach. And there’s a sadness to that, isn’t there? The immutability of time, the tragicness of how ephemeral everything can be, how fragile.
And that’s not right. that’s not right at all. It’s so inaccurate when it comes to how I feel and think about you, about us. I always think about the possibility. I always think about our future. It’s robust, it’s timeless, it’s engraved in stone that future archeologists will dug up and admire. They will see blow the dust off and marvel the etchings and carvings of our life together and instantly know. They will write stories that will inspire generation after generation.
Here’s what I foresee. I can’t wait until we travel. I can’t wait to see Paris again. I can’t wait to visit Colombia. I can’t wait to share a meal with you whose name I cannot pronounce. I can’t wait to see you on the beach again. I can’t wait to see you standing on a balcony and the breeze makes your hair dance. I can’t wait to see our children start lives of their own. Not to get rid of them, but to see them bloom and grow and stretch even more. I can’t wait for you to scold me for spoiling our grandchildren. I can’t wait to sell this house and buy another closer to anywhere, wherever anywhere could be.
Because that anywhere, that everywhere, that every when is always with you.
Always,
me
2021.08.31
my father, my dad, my “ba”
Ba,
When you first came into my life, I didn’t know you, I was happy for my mom, but I didn’t know you and didn’t want to. I was happy for her, she would get off my back and that was good.
But you made her happy, and that was better than I had expected, and you guys were going to get married, so suddenly, I wanted to impress you. I still didn’t want to get to know you. That’s how teenagers are, we’re stupid and self-centered.
Then I got married, and became a father too. I wanted more than anything, for your admiration. I wanted you to admire the man I was becoming, the family I was making, the life I was building.
It was still all about me.
Now, now that the aches are starting to settle in, as the next phase of the kids’ lives is just around the corner. As I look around to everything I am and have, I can’t fight the feeling that I need you more than ever. And not to help with a crisis or a home project, but to hear the stories of your youth, your triumphs and your failures. To be impressed by you, to admire you, as you once were and still are.
I guess this is a long way of saying, I want to get to know you; my father, my dad, my “ba”.
Took long enough didn’t it?
Love, always,
Me
2021.06.18
is it really mine
is the rage, pain and anguish i feel truly mine or am i just keyed into yours?
the form of the question
the form of the question, intricately woven with intent and anticipation. and a bit of fear. never forget the fear, always there. the form of the question is a rose. but not just the petals and the pollen and the stem, it is also the thorn, the pin prick of having indulged. the bead of blood pooling through the swirl of the fingerprint, the impression already made, the mark of a stain yet to be made after leaving.
the form of the question to be decided, to be told, how to unfurl. a curtain draped over abandoned furniture, what’s under there? the scattering of dust, motes flung into late afternoon light, the gathering of refined wool, or is it linen, cotton, what makes the question and the thing it asks heavy enough for a snap of the wrist to bring it to the fore for the revelation? pock marked legs and scoffed cushions. velvet or leather, arm rests slightly out of alignment and the overwhelming feeling that something that was once there, once there often day in and day out, is now irrevocably gone.
the form of the question begs the question, where to begin, how to phrase it just right, to know what i want to know and do i even really want to know?
table turning
i was thinking the other day, how weird it is, to go from being admired by your daughter to admiring her. to go from expecting your daughter to impress you to wanting to impress her. to go from getting her to meet your expectations to realizing you can never match hers. it’s not meant to sound sad or morose, it’s more of how pleasantly the tables have turned.