Childish Questions

I had other ideas to write about; the battle at work with a coworker, camping, the nonstop barrage of illegal Chinese fireworks outside my house on Friday night… There’s even this Kenneth Anger piece I’m tossing around for kc!. But…

Round abouts 11 on Saturday night, Kickers woke up screaming his face off. This one wasn’t that sort of exploratory, “hey I’m crying – sorta” sound that he will occasionally make before dropping off again, something was not working out well for him. I went in his room, and on entering he quieted down a bit. I put my hand on his back and he seemed to drop off, but as soon as I started to leave he would kick up his screaming fit again.

I finally picked him up and took him out to the dark living room to lie on the couch together. He immediately poked his head up to check the street for passing busses, but I whispered for him to lay down and he did. He whispered “dada”, grabbed gently at my face and slowly sank back into sleep.

I laid there with him, listening to him mumble his musical language as he faded, feeling those impossibly little fingers stroke my face slower and slower, and suddenly the lack of importance in most anything else shone like a neon X-Ray.

How do you hold onto that feeling of peace, that clarity of calm? How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it? How is there still this unending drive for power, for destruction of ANYONE? How does the president sleep? How is it that the only interaction I’ve heard with the neighbor woman and her beautiful little girls is through yelling?

How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it?

Sure, words are easy and clumsy and dangerous. How is it that sitting here at my desk I’m 8 kinds of wrapped up in work bullshit? How is it that I have to close my eyes and block out the sounds around me to even have a slight impression of those fingers on my face, the sound of his language of the universe, the smell of his hair? It’s because everything beautiful and magical is fragile.

I want to lock it inside of myself like some biological compass, some blinding legend. I wonder if my father remembers this…