Random thoughts on a late summer's night
He's scared, he's sad...
...but most of all, he's worried about his grandson, a lovely 8-year-old whose pictures he shows us just like a proud grandpop. The only grandson he'll ever have, he thinks, since his daughter is a single mom with a high-powered career. The grandson whose diapers he used to change. The adored little grandson that he babysits so often.
He's been retired for 18 years. Used to do work somehow related to the Middle East, to oil...now he gets angry at our country's belligerence, at our elected officials' flagrant disregard for our Constitutional rights and for universal human rights....he's discouraged by the widespread apathy of his fellow Americans...but mostly its the warmongering that gets to him. So he comes to our local Amnesty International meetings. He's glad to have found a handful of people who feel the same...even if we have little effect on the status quo.
We talked about the drums beating for war with Iran...he thinks of his grandson. He's a real hands-on grandpop.
"You don't raise 'em to kill 'em," he says.
I peek into my son's room. It's so...empty!
So empty that now his narrow single bed dominates the room. "We're never going to fit all those boxes into the car," I tell him.
I remember back about 16 1/2 years ago. We had to get him out of the crib and into a big-boy bed in his own room before his sibling-to-be arrived. How would we get him to give up his crib?
I don't remember if I thought of it or my husband. We turned the crib on its side. "It's broken," we told him. "Pop-pop has to fix it." (My father-in-law used to fix everything from the car to the plumbing.) We got the spare bedroom ready.
He climbed into bed that first night. I sang him my variation of "Jesus loves me." He had a blankie, of course, a worn out baby blanket. He'd run his fingers round and round the border until he fell asleep.
I remember thinking to myself that I didn't deserve such a good little boy.