Father and Son

source: fiveprime.org

It is Sunday afternoon–the Sunday before Christmas–and, like most other families, the three of us are on our way from place to place. This, though, is an unscheduled stop.

“Where are we?” I ask, receiving no answer.

My husband smiles at my son and says simply, “C’mon.”

They leave me in the car and trudge out across the wide field that spreads before me. Small form following tall. I love the wonder and innocence in the way my son looks up every now and then to say something. I watch as their two silhouettes shrink into distance. They stop at the tree line on the other side of the field, by a short wooden fence.

Boyhood memories are being shared at the edge of the snow. I see one point towards the winding creek, explaining something, his voice swallowed by the silence. Capers from a past life. The other’s rapt attention shows even from a distance. His face follows the pointed hand, he listens, then speaks as well. Asking something. They laugh. I can’t hear them from here but I can see their postures shift. Eventually, they turn and, picking up speed, begin to run across the wide, white space. They seem suspended between a sky that matches the land, running but going nowhere, as their breath plumes out behind them. Gradually, though, they get closer. I can hear them laughing now, can see their looks full of determination.

“I’m going to beat you!” my son giggles, his arm outstretched toward the car.


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