Wednesday, November 28, 2012
My Son Is Crying
Not the "I'm in so much pain" cry but more like the "who just pulled the rug out from under me?" cry. His face contorts into abstract gyrations mirroring the profound melancholy vibrating through his innards.
He's not in physical pain. He didn't just lose his favorite toy. This calamity is far more subtle. After a thanksgiving full of cousins and joy, it is time to return back to normal life. His cousins have left for the airport and he feels empty; consumed by longing for togetherness.
My son is sensitive. Normal emotions that others brush off, he feels to the core of his soul. It is part of the unbridled uniqueness that he brings to the world. He fills me with such pride and envy, yet I worry. But should I?
Am I not also a protege of Achilles? Being in tune to the morass of humanity has allowed me to be a father, writer, and physician. It is such qualities that fight the unbearable indifference facing any monumental task.
Except, I am not my son.
My sensitivities have a limit. The pain only goes so far. I do not feel things the way he does. Or maybe I should preface such statements with the qualifier: anymore. The death of my father at the age of eight has had untold consequences. I can only imagine the hardness of heart such things require the soul to imbibe.
He is more than a father could ask from a son.
So why am I so afraid?
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 3:11 PM