Sweet Sleeper

Son,
There's so much to tell and no time. Life goes by like a million miles an hour. All I have for you of the last several days are these meandering stories.

Last night there was precious time in your Mom's darkened art studio. I cradled you in my arms like a football and you slept peacefully as your Mom and I talked about the fullness of life and the wide open future. I made up my first lullaby and your Mom fed me ice cream because both my arms were full and falling asleep. Later I dozed in the chair, with you tucked close to my chest. I did not want to be anywhere else.

You had guests this week. Grandpa Lou and Grandma Jeanette visited for a while. I did not know how much I wanted for family until they arrived. It was lovely to have them here and near. Little things like washing dishes or bouncing you for five minutes opened up this vast relaxed space in our lives. It was a powerful feeling, to share the work and responsibility. You are worth every second of it, but sometimes I am absolutely crushed by the weight of you. Caring for you, comforting you, providing for you, these all demand my complete attention. I get so worried that I might fail you somehow, and fail myself. I know that everything will be all right, but sometimes I forget; I am easily caught up by doubt, you'll discover.

You had another guest, who arrived most unexpectedly and stayed for only two minutes. A peregrine falcon alighted in the tree in our postage stamp back yard. I had seen him once before, hunting sparrows at the neighbor's feeder. I remember the first time I saw a hawk. My family had just moved to the woods of Exeter. I was in the second grade and not fitting in so well with the other kids. I preferred to spend my time with the frogs, snakes, turtles and toads at the pond across the street from our house. Surrounded by cow pastures, the pond was the center of my quiet universe. I have one million memories of that place, including the red-tailed hawks that circled high above the cut hay fields, looking for their dinner. The first time I saw one, I was with my father. We watched the bird bank in the sun and saw the distinctive flare of the red tail feathers. It was exciting to me, to see this strange bird, so foreign to the drab suburbs of West Warwick where we had lived. Since that time birds of prey have been totems to me. They are fierce and beautiful. I would like to think that falcons are watching over you.

I have been working too much. I am building a stone patio for a man my age who studies to be a doctor and loves to golf. The project needs to be done quickly and so I have spent too many weekend days away from you and your Mom. I regret the lost time, but have to admit that it feels good to work outside again, in the elements. I like the rough skin of my hands and being connected to the rainfall. A line in the lullaby sings, “Papa is mason…” which sounds better and gives a better rhythm than, “Papa is a human services trainer and consultant aspiring to be an information designer…” I feel strong and capable when I work with stone. It makes me a better man, something I am very conscious of these days.

Earlier this week I promised you a camera as soon as you could hold one. You study the photos around the house with such intensity and thought, I'm afraid to hear your critiques. You never need to use the camera, but I want you to have it available to you. If you want, you can add to your songlines.

Sleep well, Baby Abraham,
Pa-