Father's Day

I saw you tiptoeing around the house with a glint in your eye. Was it for the mischief you have done or intend to do? I would never know. I saw the edges of your lips curl into a satisfying smile. Was it from something that made you happy or some joy you are going to bring about? I could never guess. To decipher it would require me to make an objective observation. From the moment you opened your eyes to every occasion you call me “Pappa” in those dulcet tones, you have robbed me of any objectivity I could possess.

Here I am: your old man. Brown-eyed, fair-skinned, receding hair, bespectacled, chastened.
Here you are: my son. Brown-eyed, fair-skinned, silky hair, wobbly, animated.

We meet in the middle: two worlds residing under the same roof, two lives colliding and intertwining in a curious mix of head and heart, genes and emotions, love and admiration.

You are an eighteen month young boy. Young enough to wear your emotions on your sleeve, with not a deception in sight, not a shred of malice, not a bias in place. Young enough to laugh with your mouth wide open with the sparkle of teeth matching the unbounded sounds of rapturous merriment. Young enough to dance with unbridled joy at a song, admiring the strains of melody as they fill the space around you.

You have grown eighteen months old now. Old enough to look straight into my eyes and speak a thousand words without a sound. Old enough to invent new games and draft people into playing them. Old enough to have a curiosity that questions the humdrum existence of everyone and everything. Old enough to let me have the pleasure of teaching you something. Everything.

I have grown eighteen months wiser now. Wise enough to wake up each morning with the knowledge that the best lessons in life come with responsibility. Wise enough to know that a study in flailing arms can teach you all about surviving. Wise enough to laugh and worry to my heart’s content about the smallest and biggest things related to you.

I have grown several years younger too. Young enough to learn a new language that you put together. Young enough to let go, even for moments, of my biases and inhibitions. Young enough to be a boy, even if the slight traces of grey in my hair dictate otherwise. Young enough to know what it feels like to be a child. Young enough, to learn.

So, there we are; parent and child, guide and student, brothers in arms, rogues in merriment, father and son. The other day, I saw you trying to slide your foot into my shoe. I am sure you weren’t looking for symbolism like your old man was. I am sure you weren’t trying to bridge the gap between our worlds, trying to see what it would be like to be me.

I am sure you didn’t see me playing with your shoes either. Happy Father’s Day, my son.