father sonAs I get older I am more and more hounded by (or more and more made aware of) the droning, inner negativity that follows me wherever I go. It is as if we—this vast, dark sink hole of cranky mean-spiritedness within and I—live out our own sorrowful destinies without hope of mutual understanding or reconciliation. Everything is fair game for this other one, and, once in her sights, no one can hope to escape her cruel judgments. Least of all me.

Then, while waiting for my plane in the Denver airport yesterday, I witnessed something that silenced the both of us: a father, determined to keep his very young son occupied while they waited for their flight, played a game of baseball with him, and neither had a ball, bat, or glove. For half an hour or more we sat transfixed as we watched them pretend to hit, throw, and catch an invisible ball and to run around invisible bases. The father even called strikes and announced home runs.


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