YOU CANNOT FLY AWAY

Dear Spike:

Your mother didn’t tell me she was going to take the test.

We had only just recently decided that we wanted a baby in our lives and I didn’t believe we’d succeed so soon. So when I came home from work, Friday afternoon, I wasn’t really prepared for the news.

“There will be three of us for dinner tonight,” she said.

•••

Someday, perhaps when you are eight or nine years old, I will take you on your first roller coaster ride. We will sit in the lead car — the wait is longer but the view is worth it — and hold our hands above our heads as the coaster tips over the top of the first peak.

For a moment, our car will lurch over the drop as we wait for the rest of the train to follow us over the peak. And in this moment, I will ask you to take a deep breath and — against your instincts to do otherwise — to keep your arms outstretched above your head.

•••

Someday, perhaps when you are five or six, I will take you to the lake. It will be fall and the the changing leaves will set fire to the water’s surface. I will lift you in my arms and hold you gently above my head.

For a moment, you will glide through the air, above the water, like a bird. And in this moment, I want you to take a deep breath and recognize that — against your wishes to do otherwise — you cannot fly away from the crystal cold water.

•••

Someday, perhaps when you are 17 or 18, I will take you to the airport. I will walk with you to the security gate and hand over your backpack. I will stand aside the crowd, against the wall, as you serpentine through the line of passengers.

For a moment, our eyes will meet. And in this moment, I will motion for you to take a deep breath and — with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation — walk away, knowing that, on this adventure, you will be on your own.

•••

Someday, perhaps when you are my age, you will find a person with whom you wish to spend your life. On the night before your wedding, we will go to a pub and order a beer and sit in the outdoor patio and watch as people of every shape and color walk by on the street.

For a moment, you will wonder whether you are prepared to devote your life to another person. And in this moment, you will take a deep breath, take a sip of your beer, and — even given your vast experience in matters of uncertainty — still be terrified.

•••

On Friday I held you and your mother in my arms and laughed as I had never laughed before.

I took a deep breath and found it wasn’t enough. I was excited and terrified, anxious and overjoyed, hands over my head, feet above the water, taking the first steps on a long journey. I could feel my father next to me and I could feel him far away.

Someday perhaps you will feel this way too. I love you too much to wish otherwise.

Love,
dad