The Fire Tribe

Abraham,
We took a walk this evening on a perfect Portland night. It's almost warm and the raindrops aren't falling so much as forming in the air around you. Everything is shiny and cars going by sound like paper tearing.

On these walks I wear you in a contraption called a Baby Bjorn. You rest against my chest, your face smooshed into my shirt, your rugged new orthopedic shoes dangling dangerously close to my privates. You are already long and lean like me. When I carry you like this, we make our own little orbit and everything outside us is small and unimportant. We exclude the world. You fall asleep once we start really moving and I fold my sweatshirt around you like wings. We blaze a trail through puddles and down long aisles in the grocery store. It reminds me of walks I took in Korea. I would pull on my sunglasses and my headphones and walk so swiftly, flying under the prying radar of locals curious about the lone roundeye in the neighborhood. I would listen to Catfish Hunter, a stark and compelling soundtrack to the vivid world around me. I would always start in the street market near my house and then wander wherever distraction carried me. I always ended up at the ocean, drawn by strange gravity. I could walk five miles and never feel the earth beneath me. With you close, walks are just that new and alive. We are visitors on a fantastic planet. Cats and nice clerks in stores are benevolent aliens but we take quick evasive action to avoid being detained by solicitors and the baby-curious. We exclude the world. I only wish I could walk you to the sea.

Pa-

Abe,
It's been a busy weekend, as we try to get all of our Christmas cards and gifts together. Never content enough to just go shopping, we try to make everything ourselves. There are drawbacks to this approach, some of which you mentioned to us in passing yesterday, when we turned the house inside out and scattered paper and pens like flower seeds. Your Mom and I both have a knack for disappearing into our projects. We forget everything else around, which you found sort of boring, stuck as you were, wherever we thought to put you. We ate on the floor all weekend, to be closer to you in your bouncing chair, but also because the table was buried under art supplies. You held your first Sharpie and critiqued my layout ideas.

The days are just packed.

Pa-

Abraham,
Everyday you are more alive than the last. Your eyes are dark and shiny, full of thought and wonder. We stare at each other forever, smiling at all the stupid things I do to entertain you. We are all amazed at the world you are waking up to.

Today you were full of sounds, some like words, some like curious cats. Today your Advent calendar contained a pineapple. Today you hold your head up high, intrigued by the new view. Today you screamed like a banshee in the car seat.

You have a bedtime ritual now. We dance with you to you Bob Marley's 'Rebel Music.' I love that you love such fierce protest music. It fits your strong voice. In the midst of the dancing, you end up in your pajamas. This can be a delicate business as you have some strong opinions about sleeves. After dancing, we swaddle you, wrapping you tightly in fabric, until you look like a tiny bean with big eyes. Swaddling is a new discovery, one that helps you immeasurably; your arms still have lives of their own and frequently swing wildly, wacking you in the face unless contained. You sleep better without such abuse. Good night kisses all around and then your Mom nurses you into sweet slumber.

It's a good life.

Pa-

Abraham,
Your Grandma Cynthia came to visit last week. She was here for one happy day without your casts and she weathered the first days after your surgery with us all. She told you stories in a quiet voice, a private conversation between Grandma and Grandson into which parents best not intrude. She bounced you and rocked you and marveled at your beauty and charm. She brought you a book about two pigs named Toot and Puddle. She did dishes and gave your Mom and I a chance to take a twenty minute walk around the neighborhood all by ourselves, our first private time not stolen while you were sleeping.

We all had Thanksgiving dinner together with my friend Cheyney, a wandering soul I met in Korea almost a decade ago. We gave thanks for your health and well-being, your strong voice and willingness to share your thoughts and ideas. We gave thanks for friends and family and community, a network of amazing people that spans the globe. One of my favorite things about my life with your Mom is having our own holiday celebrations. In many ways they define family for me. And now those celebrations take on a new richness, as this family grows. Already, you have your first Advent calendar. It hangs on the wall near your 'low gallery', a collection of photographs and other art at ground level. Today we opened a small door on the Advent calendar and found a tiny blue teddy bear. Tomorrow, another treasure.

G'night.

Pa-

Abraham,
I owe you so many stories; these are rich days.

Most of your short life you have worn thick plaster casts on your legs. They are bulky things, that stretch from your toes to the top of your thighs. They dig into your legs and are damp for two days after being changed. And with each set of casts, they torque your ankles further towards normal. The only part you enjoy is the vibrating blade that cuts them off. You smile amidst the dust and noise.

Last week we had a pre-op appointment and they cut the casts off and left them off. Until that time I had thought that you were a fussy kid maybe, or colicky. Now I think you're indignant. You were so happy without the casts. You bounced your legs around like a baby should and smiled so much that you chased away the rain.

It was with a heavy hearts that we drove you to the hospital this past Tuesday for surgery and a new set of casts. I didn't worry much for the anesthesia or the small stab wounds they would make into your heels to lengthen your Achilles tendon. I do believe their technology can help you. I want you to run freely and dance whenever the mood strikes you. I am sure that this is worth it. That did not change my aching heart, broken at the thought of you weighed down with more casts.

The hospital was soaked in florescent lighting and full of kind people who spoke in code. There is so much raw emotion in a children's hospital, so much potential energy, waiting kinetic expression as crushing grief or levitating relief. Every table in the waiting room has a box of tissues on it and the coffee machine generously gives you back your change. They hand out USAToday for free, like in a mediocre hotel.

You cried some, but were easily consoled by bouncing and being held close. We were happy to hold you close.

The walk down the hallway to the surgery was hard. It brought home the idea that we would hand you over to strangers who would drug you and cut into you. That walk tests your faith in their technology. Maybe we can run away and live on the moon where steeply turned ankles are less of a concern, where we can run and dance and bounce without gravity's constant nagging.

We did not run. Someday you will.

Since that time you have been rightfully indiginant. These casts are the biggest yet; none of your pants fit. The anesthesia rocked your world and the pain syrup was so effective at knocking you out, I felt guilty for giving it to you. You have a new waking cry that is pained and panicked, sudden and piercing.

And yet, everyday gets better. Today you smiled like crazy at my high pitched voice and took two bottles from me without complaint. That's new and newsworthy. You get stronger and stronger and swing your casts around on the changing table and vigorously smash the wall. You are so fresh and alive; I wonder if I am the one holding all the regret and grief for this, all the indignation. I got a knack for that.

Run.

Pa-

Abe,
While your grandparents were here we took them into the Columbia Gorge to Multnomah Falls and the Bonneville Dam. You were packed so tightly in foul weather gear, you couldn't relax your arms. You slept so peacefully, even as we ventured under the train trestle as a long freighter roared overhead. You woke, glanced at this deisel-powered thunderstorm, yawned and dropped back to sleep. The falls didn't seem to get you that excited either.

I love this picture of your Mom with her Dad, your Grandpa Lou. I love the sparkle in her eyes and smile. It's plain as day how I could fall so endlessly in love with her. And I like how your Grandpa's hair disappears into the waterfall, like he was wearing the world.

After the falls, we drove to the dam and watched a million coho salmon surging through narrow chutes, heading home for the last time. This is the very place your friend Matt spent the moments of your birth, marveling at the strength and determination of our native salmon and the magic of the strange weather that signaled your arrival.

This world is endless beautiful loops.

Pa-

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-