A Collection of Stories

Years

By the age of five, the birds that visited our backyard in order to steal our berries and worms fascinated him. The wandering insects that trailed up the trees or burrowed in the shallow dirt also intrigued him. He wanted to learn everything about his winged neighbors, who often cocked their beady eyes at him when he stood stiff as a statue so as not to frighten them away. Because of this current interest, I'd bought him a book on warm-blooded vertebrates and like a leech, he sucked up the endless information bounded within its fresh pages identifying and memorizing facts like rectrix, auricular region, crest, crown, scapulars, etc. It wasn't long before he turned to recreating the beauty of his latest obsession on paper. And I smiled and praised every scratch and scribble that eventually became discernible and identifiable as he steadily improved.

By ten, he'd turn his energies to construction. There wasn't a day when he wasn't in the family room building almost impossible structures with his Lego blocks. His uncle, a Lego enthusiast, never failed in keeping him well supplied with blocks. His modest collection grew into an empire of palaces, humble towns, bustling cities full of skyscrapers and even our own little neighborhood. He balanced his constructive time with Legos, with creating kingdoms and empires on Minecraft. He did this with an intensity I found most amusing to watch. I'd sometimes join him during his burst of adventure and creativity. His unlimited imagination awed me. And making unseen worlds visible for the onlookers who'd never see it in his head was pure genius.

By fifteen, music was his passion. Many nights after a long day of work he and I would settle on the porch, listening to his favorite songs. His collection varied between symphony, pop, classical, country, rap and reggae. Many nights he absorbed himself in strumming his grandfather's guitar, practicing on his sister's cello, or soothing his mother's insomnia with sweet sounds from the piano. His bedroom walls were soon pasted from floor to ceiling with music sheets and lyrics. He adorned his mirror and headboard with cutouts from his favorite bands and musical artists like Mozart, 2 PAC, Dax, The Marleys, Lukas Graham, Sik World and Billy Ray Cyrus. He downloaded over 4,000 songs on his iPod in three months and started each day with the songs from his favorite playlists. I didn't mind this since he became my trusty alarm for nearly a year. It wasn't long before he and a few friends formed their band that survived throughout high school known as The Nighthawks.

By the time he reached twenty, creating culinary delights penetrated his soul. We never tired of him waking the house with tantalizing smells of savory lamb chops or flaky apple crust-overs for breakfast. Grocery shopping became a force to be reckoned with, while the fresh herbs his sister loved to grow in the backyard received their due respect and a place of honor in the kitchen window. An entire shelf of the bookcase housed cookbooks ranging from Indian and Japanese to French and Spanish dishes. Relatives teased us of having visited many places around the world through his food, yet he'd humbly insist that it wasn't the same as being in the country and having a dish prepared by the natives of the land. I watched him work his magic with a confident assurance that I couldn't help being proud of; he was always ready for a new challenge, but sometimes I wondered if he'd always fly from one thing to the other without ever becoming sufficiently anchored in a particular thing....

By twenty-five architectural design possessed him in every way, shape and form. He spent endless hours sketching, drawing, and scribbling floor plans and building outlines. He had such an exceptional skill for it he became successful through selling his ideas to prospective clients. His best friend and his wife had him draw their first home a year into their marriage. Through them, he ended up designing the home of a well-known banker and made the front page of Ruther's Magazine and Timely's Latest ranking #3 in the most viewed homes in Crest View County. His business boomed after that and soon, we rarely saw our boy.

My wife had passed away when he reached thirty, and our daughter worked as a reporter for the local news. She wasn't as open to change as her brother and stayed at home with her aunt and me.

When he was forty-five, my daughter-in-law visited twice a month with my grans, a pair of energetic boys who always remembered to apologize because 'Daddy was still at work.'

"He's drawing up a new house," they'd say, and I'd smile.

Of course he is.

My daughter-in-law would then give me an apologetic smile to which I would answer with an understanding nod. I'd open my arms to my boys and feel their youthful warmth.

I'm not bothered... no... because I have my grandsons and through them, I see my boy at five and ten. Tomorrow he'll be there at fifteen and twenty. The day after, twenty-five and counting.

One day, he'll see himself through my eyes when he looks at his boys.

And maybe... just maybe... he'll remember our years.