Thankful

Today I saw a man walking by along his young son, a kid perhaps a few years older than Esteban; they were holding hands as I’ve always done with my son. And I thought of my soon to be born son Julian, and then inevitably, and unusually too, I thought of my father. How much did I lose by not having him growing up next to me? Who was by my side, as I grew? Tears rolled down my cheeks as I contemplated how sad it must’ve been. All the fervent innocence with which I waited every year, around this same time, in the hopes that maybe this would be the end of the year of which he’d show up, as he had every few other years. But that rarely took place. And as such, I grew up to expect less of people and of me, by keeping my expectations quiet, by immersing into a world of neglect and discontent that I couldn’t have foreseen. I now understand how much of a good father I really am. I know, now, that I must forget and forgive in order to let true healing begin. I must be the one who shows up every year, each and every single day, to make that promise to me and to both my boys who are what I cherish most in this world. For them, and for the boy I once was, I am both hopeful and thankful.