They amble down the beach – he, tall, dark hair,

broad of shoulder. Son, little – trit-trotting in front

curly locks tousle his brow. Father, son, little, big

mesmerized together – spotting a shell here,

a tide pool there – stopping – bending low – gathering

memories among the suds left from the

last whitecaps.

Suddenly he’s done – the little one

arms outstretched runs back to Father’s open arms.

Father hoists him high, then higher still – mounts him on his

shoulder. Now son is above and beyond Him- yet

sustained – grounded – carried by the Father’s strong frame.

The famed career dims in the glory of Father and son

together gathering memories. It dims in the joy of prodigy

seated high – this namesake; one that will carry on

long after Father is gone. It dims in the lore of family,

this friend conceived by his sweat and blood; one who will always

come back the way eddies circle and tides race back to deserted inlets,

who will love you, not despite your idiosyncrasies, but because of them.

One isn’t a Father without a son – this coursing desire of humanity. Is that

why God created me? Without sons He would be Majestic,

Creator, Redeemer. But not Father. And so he bears children to

stop. bend low. collect memories. To share love in dna. To go

beyond His footsteps, but be carried by His frame.

He, tall, dark haired, broad shouldered,

Son, lithe, tubsy, blond

trit-trotting across white sands, collecting moments

among the shells.