Transitions

The memories and emotions come as they will; I try not to fight them.  Clare could be eight, or eighteen, in t-ball or travel.  Whatever, she’s always hitting, and I’m always there, watching.

I have no right to demand that it go on indefinitely; the aches and pains aren’t mine any more than the knee or shoulder wrapped with ice.  I merely watched while my child played.  It was an altogether satisfying way to pass the time for fifteen years.  Yes, it’s criminal how time flies by.

Of course, I did more than watch.  There was some coaching and yelling along with expectations:  You will do this, you will persevere.  That will form an indelible part of our relationship.  But, if I’m smart, all the yelling and tough-guy tactics will be retired because they have no place in an adult relationship. 

On the other hand, I did bring Clare into this world, and I can take her out if she does anything stupid, like move to New York or fail to utilize her God-given talents.  I mean, what’s a father for if not making sure his kid does well—and right—in the world?