Upon Your 16th Birthday

Do you remember our camping trip that one early summer, spread across four gloriously peaceful days? You were fresh off another year of grade school. I was desperate for silence. I never knew time could stand so perfectly still. You walked on child’s legs, bounding and bouncing through a wild, sprawling world fenced in by massive, aged oak trees nestled tightly around the muddiest of lakes. You searched out perfect sticks to poke holes deep into the earth. You uncovered the flattest rocks to skip on repeat. You transformed into a forest angel before my eyes—the most serene creature I would ever encounter.   

Do you remember the flimsy hotdogs we snaked onto wired forks. The canned chili we sizzled over an open flame in our trusty blackened pot. A $5 meal with a $100 taste. In between meals, you spit sunflower seeds so religiously, I expected holes to burn through your sweaty cheeks. Watching you churn out spent shells sitting in our America red, white, and blue lawn chair, I knew there could be no better companion as my child, snuggly resting in furniture built for an adult's body. There was no adult I would have had occupy that chair.    

Do you remember the impossibly long nights we slowly gave into? The blues fading into oranges fading into purples fading into pinks? Do you remember soaking up the lilting beams easing down from the stars, multiplying before our eyes? Our conversations danced in circles, stirred up possibilities, created ultimate scenarios, defined our time infinitely. Coyotes serenaded the lulls of silence, their lungs happily drunk on moon drops, picking up steam with night's arrival. I’d give all I have to see your growing face again under those night shadows.

Do your remember trudging the canoe through reeds tangled and twisted in the water? Our paddles sticking thick in the green sludge? Bullfrogs berating us, taunting us, mocking the strangers who dared glide through their space? You took the lead, paddling eagerly to move us ahead, arms burning force, breaths soaked in sweat, sighs seeped in satisfaction. I admired your persistent strength, too young to be undone by water plants and lazy frogs. Too determined to merely float aimlessly. You had places to be.

Do you remember the heaviness of regret while packing our tent? The hope that we bottled to unpack it soon? Do you remember the long road that took us out of those woods? Away from the lake waving goodbye in the rearview mirror? The miles we crossed returning home with remorse buried in our lungs? Often, I wish we’d never traveled home. Never rejoined the race. Never returned to familiarity. Often, when I’m unsettled, lacking faith, diminished complete, I imagine unrolling our sleeping bags, crawling inside, telling nighttime stories without pause so could never grow old. Often, when I watch you walk away, I imagine you’re off to find the perfect stick. I imagine you’re off to catch fireflies. I imagine you’re off to hide so I will seek. Often, when I see you sitting in a chair you now fill as an adult, I still see my beautiful forest angel.   

It's The Sweet Faces That Haunt Me

“Friends will arrive, friends will disappear.” – Bob Dylan

I’m thinking of you today. I have been since your demise. You were my child's friend. You were a welcomed presence in our home. You were a laugh I heard from down the hall. An extra dinner plate at the table. Another bike in the driveway. You were a period of time. And now you're gone. Buried. Beyond. You should be witnessing possibilities. Instead, you saw none. I fear you’ll be forgotten. The dead often times are. 

“Quiet down, damn it!” That was the wisdom I imparted. That was the introduction I made. That was my contribution to the moment. That was the presence I made. Words ignored. Words dead. Wasted, weak words. Teenagers snicker at demands. But not you. You were a sweet-faced boy. You were of a different kind.

At the top of the steps is where I tried to play parent, barking directions into a basement gone dark. A space where teenagers gravitate, congregate, migrate. A space where the confused share secrets, plot schemes, devise theories, escape parents, rearrange pressure, flee expectations, mock pretentiousness, dare time. There, high above all, on the ledge of impatience, I gave instructions with authority I abhor. That’s where I stood upright, tight-lipped, actively aging, irrelevant, a nuisance. That’s where I saw your sweet face. That’s where I saw those sad eyes. I knew you were doomed. You were bound for pain. You were too respectful. Too kind. Too decent. Your face spoke your future.

It’s the sweet faces that haunt me, break me down, tunnel deep, trigger sentimentality into motion. It’s the sweet faces that give me worry, make me anxious, leave me desperate, sap my fight. It’s the sweet faces that drown me. It’s the sweet faces that don’t fight back, won't fight back, can’t fight back, won't survive. It’s the soft eyes that do them in. That give them away. They see but aren’t seen. That know but aren’t understood. I’d seen those eyes before.

I wish you’d escaped that basement before it was too late. I wish you'd realized then that youthful bliss can last. That it only softens you more. It only leaves you farther behind. The world is cold. People are unforgiving. Thoughts are wicked. I wish your eyes had turned cold. I wish you’d learned to fight. I wish you’d lifted your words. I wish you’d stepped forward, not to the side. I wish you’d known independence. Felt the power of survival. I wish your sweet face had grown to become weathered, stained, hardened. But such a face would have betrayed your nature. One that moved me. Deepened my love for my own children. That haunts me years on.  

The Internet, The Bluejays & Coming Home

 “2:20 left. Ashland-Greenwood up 28-23. Second and eight. Wilber gets nothing! Oh my! Oh, my!” Timmy was always like this. Excitable. Amped. Always on. Always replaying the moment, sizing up the one to come, and gathering up witnesses with his voice. Timmy was always about the big moment. Searching for it. Listening to it. Embracing it. Ingesting it. Describing it. And people wanted more. Not because Timmy’s voice is the picture of beauty. Not because it's smooth or golden or a velvety revisor. But because he knows how to use it. He knows humor. He knows insight. He flavors with clichés but peppers with originality. Sitting in my dark living room, occupied by only my increasing interest and tension, I stare into the harsh white light that is my phone’s screen, giving myself over to the Internet radio station I’ve digitally dialed into. I breathe in Timmy’s voice calling this game that boys growing up in the same town Timmy and I did so long ago are playing. Timmy was made for this moment. He could have been a star. Hell, he is to his town. More than most of us become.

“1:18 left. Fourth down and three!” Wilber-Clatonia’s last chance. Our Bluejays are holding their ground for dear life. Digging in. Clamping down. Winner reaches the state quarterfinals. Loser goes home to “could have beens” and “oh so closes.” This is unfamiliar territory for Ashland. So much at stake. Timmy is talking expectations. Talking stress “on the ole’ ticker.” He talking to us, but he’s living the moment with his broadcast partner, Barry, another friend from long ago. Another voice long unheard through my ears. Together, they move easily with their words. Sincerely. Their admiration for one another is genuine and easily detected. They share the past. Memories. Wins. Losses. Tragedies. As the seconds slip away, I’m struggling to decide which I’m enjoying more, the game or the words from these souls I once knew so well. These souls who share a love for their hometown and what sports provides its people.

If Timmy is chocolate, Barry is vanilla. Reserved. Less words. Straight-ahead. Economical. But so pure. Quick to laugh. Quick to shake a hand. Authentic. Humble. Faithful. Father. Stalwart. Respectful. Respected. He’s arguably the best football player this town has seen. Certainly Top 10. But he’d tell you that's crazy, unnecessary, not required. He played in college. He came back home. He coached his school. Lifted it from doldrums to success. I’m listening to this team's success due largely to Barry's good work. And although you wouldn’t know it by listening, he has a fighting interest in this game. His sons are playing. Like Timmy, Barry’s a star in his town. If Timmy is “The Personality,” Barry is the “All-American Boy,” and more towns could use people like him. 

“Wilber lines up in the wishbone,” Timmy earnestly tells us. For an instant, I can’t help but remember the fascination my friends (including Timmy) and I had with the wishbone as kids. In our pickup games in the park. On the Bowman’s side lawn. On the playground’s gravel rocks. I can’t help but recall how that wishbone broke our hearts year after year. That damn wishbone that Barry Switzer swung like a sword, stabbing Nebraskans another death blow. Ruthless. Quick. Lethal. I can’t help but remember running that wishbone in our pickup games, Timmy at quarterback, me in the backfield. Would Wilber deliver the same heartache?

“Incomplete! Incomplete!!” Timmy screams. Wilber’s last ditch pass falls dead in the end zone. The clock is running empty. Realization is settling in. Stress ebbing. Joy abounds. “Blitz! They blitzed!!” Timmy tells us of the Bluejays' counterstrike. “Craven off the edge caused a lot of pressure!” Barry elaborates in a voice threatening to lose its calm for the first time tonight. “Heart medicine.” “Slugfest.” “White-knuckler.” “An amazing thing to watch.” These tidbits from Timmy—so like him to bring the moment the justice it deserves. Barry says the Wilber folks were “as gracious as could be” and the players gave us “a clean game”—just like him to point to the positive. They’re happy together in the afterward, Timmy and Barry. I’m happy listening to them. I’m happy for knowing them back when. I’m happy for their company tonight. I’m happy for the town I come from. I’m happy for those who surrounded me there. I’m happy that I’m still moved when someone from the land I walked makes good. “You get a feeling this team isn’t done,” Timmy says. I get the feeling he’s right.

Your Funeral

I wish I’d known you better. I wish I had spent more minutes in your presence. I wish we had swapped more details about our journeys. I wish you had expressed more sentiments about our different generations. I wish you were here, but I know that you are. I know because I feel comfortable here at your funeral. I feel accepted, despite knowing you just well enough to cross the line that separates “yes, I will pay my respects in person” and simply stating “oh, that’s too bad, he was a good man” and carrying on.

I did step. I did cross. I am here, propped up formal on this hard slab of wood, polished skillfully yet splintered, faded, decayed, permanently misshapen by countless others who collectively pressed their weight down prior. Fidgeting. Visiting. Singing. Clinging. Wondering. Pondering. Searching. Fearing. Regressing. Repressing. Contemplating only God knows what. Regrets? Sins? Expectations? Trust? Dedication? Decay? Purpose? Time?

Yes, time. Always time. Sitting here among your wife now alone, your children now without father, your friends now one less, all so vocal in loss, so demonstrative in expressing joy for a life well lived, I’m contemplating time. What is it? What has it brought? What will it bring? What will it allow?

I’m not afraid. I’m not confused. I’m not lonely or without hope. I’m not drifting. I’m not defeated. I’m not drained. No, you’re lifting me. You’re signaling me. You’re showing the way. You’re teaching. You’re gifting answers. You’re amazing in death. You’re all-knowing. Completely logical. Your freedom is liberating. The tales, the jokes, the tears in your honor are beacons. Steps. Pathways. Roads. You’re a pioneer.

I'm motivated. You've fueled my internal fire. Set me straight. Pointed the way. Provided dimension. Shape, form, and function. You've held up the mirror. Forced examination. Forced conclusions. Forced intentions. You should know I’m thankful in your death. You should know you’re teaching still. You should know I’m still benefiting from your wisdom. You should know I’m still learning about you. You should know we're still spending time. You should know I had no choice but to cross that line. 

Weed

“What the hell is that, man? It smells like a skunk in here?” “Dude, it's weed.” And so it was. Me and bud occupying the same room for the very first time. “Ah, so that’s what it smells like.” Once smartened up, instincts kicked in. Suddenly, I was cool. I was hip. In the know. Experienced. Weathered. Hardened. Only I wasn't. I was nothing. Nowhere. Never had been. Standing there against the wall in that dingy upstairs apartment, shades pulled down, cheap-ass speakers spewing shitty southern rock, dirty carpet tolerating beer-soaked teens looking half-dead but never so alive, I was never more a child, looking to escape, looking to disappear.

It's a funny thing trying to act unaffected. Trying not to gawk at the baggie stretched out before you. Trying to hide a stupid-ass, gaping grin etched across my face. Trying to hide the obvious fact I was a naive cherry nowhere ready to be plucked? But oh how I wanted to learn. How I wanted to pull out a notebook and take notes. How I wanted to whip out a camera and document the moment to study later on. How I wanted to pretend the faces of the older kids that I had managed to avoid pissing off for years in the hallways and in the alley across from school sharing their cigarettes in tight, little circles weren't now mugging me mean. These faces now forming an army, hard, ugly, and unforgiving. Poking holes in my bones with beady, dilated pupils. Sizing me up to chop me down. Testing me knowingly. “You aren’t cool, man,” their eyes declared. “What the hell are you doing here?” those eyes asked. “You better not have a big mouth,” those eyes threatened. 

Me? A big mouth? I wasn't even supposed to be here. Not anywhere close to here. If they thought I was about to put myself at the scene of the toking, they didn’t know my dad or the power he possessed at all. They didn’t understand the capabilities he held. They didn't know the unnecessary pain I'd be subjecting myself to by turning rat fink. They didn't know I was too scared to squeal. Scared of them. Scared of my old man. Scared that I was never going to be the same by seeing what I was seeing. 

But oh, I too intrigued to turn away. Mystified. Enraptured. Spellbound. By the smell. The process. The aftermath. The paper. The delicate sprinkles. The art of the roll. The tongue licks. The breathe held. The pass to the right. The great exhale. The pleasure produced. The circle of the stoned. No one invited me to enter, and I wasn’t about to ask in. I’m not even supposed to be here. Nowhere close to here. But I was there. Watching. Observing. Absorbing. Enthralled. Captivated. Grown up. A big boy now. Only I wasn’t. Not even close. I was a pup, shaken, frightened, a runt. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t prepared. I swallowed too much too soon. Too much defiance. Too much freedom. Too much regard lacking. Too many words. Too many bodies. Too many possibilities. Too much uncertainty. Too much that couldn't be unseen.

It’s a funny thing, seeing too much too soon. You can’t give it back. You can’t slow it down. You can’t predict the response. What is seen is seen. Doesn’t matter if you're supposed to be there or not. Doesn’t matter what your old man might do if he finds out. Once you’re smartened up, there’s no dumbing yourself down. You're exposed. Enlightened. Changed. You're a child no more.