TheBanyanTree: September Mirror

[B Drummond]

This evening is one of those perfect weather nights. One with all the 
requisites for making a memory that endures for decades, one ready to be 
called up unconsciously at a moment's notice for the sheer pleasure of 
remembering.

Coming back from the store with my son, both of us enjoying immensely each 
other's company, we walk and joke with each other -- poking fun at ourselves 
and in an unconscious effort to rid us of our serious natures.

And down the concrete path to the front of the house we amble, I playing 
"Bad Moon Rising" on the air guitar, my son watching, wondering and almost 
skipping, he thinking, no doubt that early onset Alzheimer's may have
already taken root in his ancient father's brain. I, happy to release 
silliness pent up for so long; he, I suspect, strangely curious as to 
what makes this part of his dad tick. How can one so ancient of days act 
so unashamedly juvenile and so out of character? he must be thinking.

But his participation and smile tell me he is more than amused.  I hear the 
gears turning in his head. I see the wonder in his eyes.

The night is free of humidity, free of noise, free of heat and free of cold.
And to me tonight the air suspended over the gardenias in bloom is the 
olfactory equivalent to honey on the tongue.  The katydids singing from the
sweet gums is equivalent to Beethoven's finest compositions.  Tonight the
winking stars truly are more precious than diamonds.  His young man's
chiseled face in need of a first shave and his clumsy mannerisms are a mirror
that dates back 3 decades ago. And like a 30 year old mirror left to the 
ravages of time it has clouded over slightly.  But tonight I swear that I 
see in that mirror that I am my father and my son is me.

And I cry.

Not that he can see it, for heaven truly knows I don't want him to see.  And I 
am silent now because my voice will not work without that old man's maudlin 
quiver that makes me feel effete.

And after a time, when the shaking goes away, when muscles retain their 
proper rigidity, I can and do muster,


"Son, I love you,"


for two good reasons, it now seems.


For I so desperately wanted so to hear it from my father when I was 
his age.  And a sense of pity and love will  not deny him of that of which one 
boy yearned for so long.

And, as it worked out so well, to finally make it happen for that boy, too,

in the murky mirror of this perfect September night.



   bd
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