Thirty-one years ago today, March 8, 1987, was an an unusually warm late winter Sunday here in Detroit. It hit 75 that day, and that may still be the record. I was with my son Frank, who was about 14 months old then. I don't remember at all where my wife and oldest son were, only that Frank and I were home alone most of the day.
My son and I ate hot dogs for lunch and went to a school park a block away. I held him in my lap and we swung gently on a swing; a couple times I put him snugly in the kids' size swing and pushed him a little less gently but never too hard. We climbed atop the small slide and slid down several times. Often Frank simply toddled around as I followed, picking up this or that for intense study before dropping it when interest waned.
The sun shone bright and, as I said, it was warm. And I've always remembered it as simply a nice day yet on a very deep level. If there's such a thing as sublimity, I learned it on March 8, 1987.
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