Dear Reader,
It’s been some time. Life, as it does, happens, and these past few months I’ve been caught in its relentless grip. You may think that this is a bad thing. But like a lazy river, life’s course can sometimes be pleasant, though always unexpected: full of dips and bends that keep you on your toes.
I’d like to promise I’ll be back to my regular rhythm of weekly posting, but with a son, a demanding job (the cure of souls is no joke), and a fairly packed calendar, I can only promise that you will hear from me more often (often being open to interpretation) than you have as of late.
Until I figure out how to juggle writing with my life as it is, I’ll do what I can.
Wish me luck!
Enjoy.
-Ryan
FIELD NOTES #29
Suddenly, I'm a boy again,
my eyes just level with your knees,
following the trim of your pantleg
to the crown of your head
where it sits between the clouds,
the sun just behind your brow,
like Saint Joseph, or Gabriel,
or any of the other nameless holy men
saints count among their number.
You could measure the distance between us
in feet but little more than four, you
might as well be using leagues.
Little did I know that I would grow
to fill the gap and by the time I was
old enough to look you in the eyes
I found it was a stranger looking
back in mine.
Your once cheerful smile was
replaced with a set of frown lines.
Your bright amber eyes set in
dark circles like stormclouds.
I never asked why.
But with a son of my own
I think I understand:
from where he sits, with his
hand in mine, all he can see
is the father he needs,
the saint with the halo,
the man who doesn't bleed.
One day he'll look up
and see me for what I am:
a tired old man, more sinner
than saint, wishing that his
boy was still about four
and all the years between
were nothing but a dream.