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
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.