Dan Downing

I once had this precious little son. He was the most sparkling, alive, friendly, curious, intelligent, little boy any dad could hope for.

When he was still too young to walk, I used to carry him in this little blue snuggly on my back, and weíd go for a walk in Menotomy Rocks Parks, just a block from where we lived in Arlington. We used to talk to, and then hug, our favorite trees. It was our own private time; it was our own special world.

But life throws us curve balls ñ or more like, we chose curved paths that lead us into unexplored by-ways ñ and we sometimes get scaredÖand may believe ourselves at dead ends. When we do, we may jump off that trail completely; and this creates discontinuities that we hide from, hurt from, live with, for a lifeime.

Fast forward twenty-five years or so.

Today, that beautiful, sparkling, intelligent, sweet boy, is a man. An intelligent, deep thinking, creative young man.

Today we walked nine holes around a small par-3 course in Lexington, hitting the ball, laughing, talking. We talked intimately about growing up, about events and decisions in our lives that are painful to face, difficult to reveal. We talked about our tastes in literature, how they differ, what they share. A common thread of our conversation was roads taken and not, that sometimes separate us from parts of ourselves, bringing loss, pain, self-doubt, denial, depressionÖand then re-birth.

We enjoyed the warm Fall day together, had lunch, took the trash to the dump, made a deposit at the ATM. When we parted, we hugged and kissed, with lightness in our hearts, agreeing to do this again.

After dinner Linda and I watched a movie.

Two young childrenís parents are killed in a car accident in the first scene. Fast forward twenty years or so. The girl is living in the house their parents left them. She has a nine-year-old boy, a job at the local bank, and a no-good husband that abandoned them years ago. Her younger brother, a confused young man with a couple of scrapes with the law in his background, arrives in town, ostensibly to visit her, but really just asking for money. He ends up staying awhile.

Fast-forward some more, through scenes where they work at piecing their estranged relationship back together, not without missteps, even as they continue to struggle through their own paths, not always making the best choices. They manage to strengthen their bond more, work through some old stuff.

In the end, the brother decides he must leave again, to go back and pick up some abandoned pieces of his own life. His sister waits at the bus stop with him, fretting that she will never see him again.

To reassure, he turns to her: ìDo you remember what we used to say to each other when we were kids?î

ìOf course I do!î

They embrace, there are tears.

As the bus rides off and the credits roll, my own tears rush out, propelled by a deep crying for a time lost, for pain inflicted and felt, for the memory and the joy of my beautiful little boy.

But I say to him, now a fine man in his own right, a renewed joy in my life, what the movie by the same title left unsaid, but was obviously the siblingsí bonding promise.

ìYou can count on me.î