The Fire Tribe

My Sons,
If the days were full before, they are overflowing now.

Alessandro, you are a sweet narcotic. You are a nap magnet, inviting your Momma and I to slow down, lay quietly for a minute, sleep peacefully, safe in the love.

Abraham, you are a magical big brother. “I like our new baby,” you said today. You are careful about noisy doors and want to check up on Alessandro frequently.
I have brought you to visit stone projects before, but today was the first time I brought you to work. You helped me grout a small section of bluestone flagging. You mixed a tiny batch of mortar in your tiny wheelbarrow wearing enormous gloves. You passed me a tablespoon of mortar on a pointy trowel whenever I needed it and you caught a bedraggled butterfly with your bare hands. It's hard to say who was prouder, you or I. You were proud to work, to take part, to be able to use the tools and contribute. Me, I was proud that my oldest son would care to come to work with me and would do such a great job.

Flash memory: I remember going to the hardware store my father managed on snowy no-school days. I remember shoveling snow and getting work pay for the first time. I remember the loading dock guys were the coolest. I remember feeling great when they welcomed me into their disheveled ranks. I was probably ten. “I'll buy, you fly,” one said, in a confusing turn of phrase that meant he'd buy me a soda if I made the short walk to the liquor store next door. I always got grape Crush.

Pa-

Abraham,
We left around 7:00 in the evening to bring you to Carmen's. I was loaded up with bags, somewhat haphazardly packed by Momma between contractions. This was to be your first ever overnight and she was concerned that you would be homesick without your routines, your usual stuff. “Hurry back,” she said, as I walked out the door.
I didn't linger at Carmen's. You were ready for me to go back home; you were in a hurry to take her dogs for a walk and explore her house. As I drove back, I called Fred to announce my absence at work for the next day. “It's on, Kristin's in labor.” I expected a long evening.
When I pulled back into the driveway the midwife's truck was parked close to the house. According to my phone, I got home at 7:20. I wandered into the house, expecting to see Momma and the midwife sorting the bags and bags of compresses, sheets and cottons we had prepared for this coming. The house was surprisingly quiet and I wandered around until I found them in the bedroom, in a pose I remember from before, your mother like a tiger, the air very, very alive.
“Are we that far along?” I asked.
“We are,” the midwife, whose named I later learned was Rhonda, said.
She sent me to her truck for a tackle box of supplies, but told me to wait until this next contraction was over. I never did make it to the truck.
Your brother Alessandro Xavier was born at 7:23 p.m. on the 14th of July 2008, your parent's seventh wedding anniversary. He weighed in at 8 pounds and measured up at 21.25 inches. He has a full head of dark hair and sleeps a lot, between bouts of strong nursing and peering around with his dark gray eyes.
He arrived quickly and full of voice. For an hour afterwards, your Momma quaked with the exertion and the power of it all. We all laid on our bed together. There is a stillness, a quietude in the air immediately after a birth that is unlike any peace I have ever known. Perhaps it is the eye of the storm, when all doubt and fear for your baby's health and the risks of delivery are lifted, before the chaos of discovering the new normal strikes. I remember that stillness well from when you were born. You and I laid on the bed and just stared into each other's eyes.
You came home the next morning and were amazed by Alessandro. “Look at the little baby,” you said one hundred times. You stroked his cheeks, counted his eyes and tweaked his nose. You always wants to hold Allie and still have a bit to learn about how to treat newborns. Allie, to his credit, takes all the inadvertent bumps, bounces and loud noises with great equanimity.
It's a good life.

Pa-

For Father's Day I got to sleep late and wake to a box with a cicada and a bunch of flowers in it. And a popsicle maker. Good day, all around.

Pa-

Abe,
I took you to the Unturned shop for the first time last weekend. A freight train rolled by while we were hanging out and the engineer tooted the horn at you. In the shop you ran from place to place saying, “Look at that!” and “What's this all about?” You watched Jesse working on one of his chicken tractors. You wore ear plugs while he cut tin with a grinder. You liked the sparks. And you practiced hammering on some roofing nails.

Pa-

Abe,
A few weeks ago, on a rainy day, you and I built a sandbox in the backyard. I sawed the wood and we took turns hammering the nails. You spend a lot of time out there, with your shovels and spoons, with your bull dozers and dump trucks. You Momma and I watch you through the kitchen window as you build and rebuild the world.

Pa-