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?
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