The Fire Tribe

Abraham,
You are our guiding light these days. You are endlessly bright and ready for the world, a good role model as we swim through a thick soup of tasks and details. In two days time we will board an airplane and no longer call Portland home. It is a sad parting, as there are magical people here. But we are a blessed family, and we move from magic to magic. In Asheville you will meet the community that married your Mom and me. We will be closer to family. Your Dad will work with stone and finish his next novel. Your Mom will make art and finish her book about teaching art. Your cousins Matthew, Henry and Grace will come to pick apples in the fall. We'll go play in waves at Huntington Beach. Graham will come visit and marvel at how much you've grown. It's all good.

Everyday you learn new things. Right now, the funniest thing in the world is when your Mom gets real close to you and speaks Thai. She says, “Ba-ba bo-bo, mahk-mahk,” which means “very crazy” and you giggle. You have started rolling over, from your belly to your back. I can't say if it's all intentional or not; sometimes it seems like you lean your head to one side and the momentum carries you right over. You're very philosophical about it though, you just lay on your back, smile at us, maybe suck on a finger or two. You are happy wherever you are.

As I said, you are a guiding light. And a good role model.

Pa-

Abraham,
I have not forgotten these pages my son. Our days are rich, but time for reflection is scarce. I have stories to tell but life comes crashing by like a million miles an hour.

You had the fullest day today.

We visited Kim and Matt. He did a Portland-style, slo-mo, baby-safe crumpin' dance for you in his living room. Your laugh was clear and loud. It makes me sad to leave friends like that behind, but makes me happy that we have a network of amazing people across the globe. That's what a songline is really, a thread between people that extends over all time and all space. We leave this place but not this family.

Later, the ladies in the coffee shop came over and gushed over your reckless good looks. You humored them with smiles and coy glances. That was until their talked turned to the ever-changing trends of circumcision. Then you cried and they left. Well done.

The library, the grocery store, some home-made songs on the bouncy ball and then a well-deserved nap.

The sun shined brightly all day. It was magical.

Be sweet,
pa-

Abraham,
Someone recently challenged us to think of your crying as a way to burn off energy, to spin the sparks of the day out and away. Maybe you cry like I bounce, late at night listening to the endless rain. It makes sense really; the world is so new to you and I would guess so overwhelming. I have lived in it for thirty-six years and still find myself buried at the end of every day in thoughts and ideas and strange occurences to mull over again and again. It's a rich fabric and I would hate to miss a single color.

Until today I saw my job as the cry-stopper. I have ten techniques or more to distract you from your grief. Except maybe it's not really grief. Maybe it's a song you're singing. You got no words for it all, just sounds, sweet noise. Maybe these are your songlines.

Tonight I hold you close and you sing. Loud. We walked in the half light of the bedroom and swayed gently, much more gently than the trees outside, buffeted by yet another rain storm. I open my heart so wide that I fall in. I cry with you. We recall the day the same. I cannot describe the calm after. It is fresh and quiet.

Later I sing to you a lullaby written in the moment. It rolls like a chant, a tone poem, a TV on the Radio song. I call the words from the air, from our day together, from the rain outside, from your smiling eyes. It is my songline. We write it everyday.

Pa-

Abe,
Some nights are like this. You are wide awake at eleven or twelve, maybe wired for sound, maybe a perpetual motion machine like your Pa. I have worse traits you could have inherited. It's rough on your Mom though, to have two of us under one roof; there's always something going on in this house, usually something cool too, and creative.

I told you all about watercolor pencils tonight. I told you how I love color, but can only borrow it in my photographs. I can't paint at all and wish I could move color in that way. Your Mom though, color belongs to her. Learn that from her. I can teach you how to draw things as they appear, but your Mom can teach you how to draw the world behind and inside things, how to hear quiet voices, how to see the things you dream.

Rest child, tomorrow is another full day,

Pa-

Abe,
Today you laughed for the first time, a magical chuckle that offically makes you the most engaging person to ever be. We were playing games with your blanket and everytime I pulled it away and popped back into view, singing, “Peek-a-boo!” in my highest, most lilting voice, you laughed. I did it time and time and time again.

The life in you dazzles me.

Pa-

Abraham,
On Christmas Eve you threw your first ever party, a smallish affair for your pick-up Portland family. There was pie and tea and fat cans of Hamm's for your Uncle Efrem. You bounced on various laps and at times you looked vaguely alarmed. It did wind you up, so that later you could not sleep; eyes wide and shiny in the dark bedroom. At midnight your Mom danced with you in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. You two have a special orbit, like twin suns at the center of a galaxy. I'm just a planet spinning.

We had breakfast for lunch, enjoying what might be the last lazy Christmas morning for a very long time. Your Mom recalls playing cards with her brothers and sister in the earliest morning, impatient for gift-receiving. I would wake first and plug in the tree. In the kaleidoscope light I would open my stocking: pens and pencils and once, cherries fermented in sweet liquor all packaged in a small glass boot.

We walked in Forest Park. I carried you in the Bjorn and you slept so soundly you snored, No matter how gray the Portland day, Forest Park always glows green with rain-light. I held you near the creek and you slept on the sound of water moving. There are salamanders in this creek, but we did not disturb them on this day. Later you woke and were wide-eyed at the green world going by.

After a nap we opened presents with interruptions for dinner and your bed times. You got clothes and toys and a stuffed termite from your Grandma, who goes in for that kind of thing. You also got a very nicely illustrated reference book on poetic forms.

This of course, from your

Pa-