Got to spend a couple hours this morning with my son at his pre-school. The director, Liz, is great. I can come by anytime to observe his activities. Here he is fixing to blow some bubbles in a pan of bubble water and food coloring. The teacher had two sized straws to blow bubbles, a thin and a thick. “Which one do you want?” she asked him. “Give me the big,” he said. Haha. What really got me is how he insisted on holding my hand. “What’s your name?” a little girl asked. He couldn’t help answering for me: “Papa!” he said. For anyone that doesn’t know, it really touches your heart when a child holds your hand. At some point I noticed that his shorts and shirt were on backwards. Then I saw the kid next to him had his jeans on backwards. So I thought it was some sort of deal. But it wasn’t. When I pointed it out, he laughed. “I guess I got dressed in a hurry, I was excited to see you.” Sweet kid.

AB and I drove home later and climbed the hill in the back of the house. Something about the day made me feel like I was walking up after a long time being dead. When your entire body, your entire life, is a protest of unjust war, a condemnation of war, and so many going under from the weight of it, it’s easy to feel discouraged, or mad.

I find my peace outside. I make amends. I forgive myself. I make my way past Scylla and Charybdis. I journey on. I notice a rainbow. I whistle to AB. I wake anew to the beauty that life once was.

My son holds my hand; I hold it back.