Today.
I’ll try to say words to comfort you, but I’m not sure you can hear me. I’m here and you’re there.
Yesterday.
Neither icy roads nor clogged traffic would deter me -- hell-bent as I was to drive our grandson to his masters-level musical scholarship audition four hundred forty-five miles from where we live.
Today.
This morning I sat with the boy as he picked at his hotel breakfast. Eyes down. Very serious. Often checking his phone.
While he attempted to center himself, I looked at the fellow diners -- attired in sweatshirts proclaiming Iowa State, University of Colorado, KU, TCU, OU, The U, or some other big red something-or-another school. Everyone in that crowd a Titan, a Jayhawk, Sooner, Hurricane, Colt, Golden Buffalo, or Horned Frog. Young people with cascading blond hair, minimal grooming, torn jeans. Multi-colored shoes with swooshes or tri-bars. Older folks -- jeans too tight, hiked-up too far in a vain attempt to emphasize something no longer present. Parents hoping their assumed youth and vitality does not go unnoticed. Declaring their willingness to squirm all day for their child. Their children drifted toward each other, then the front door.
Later Today.
My grandson, as did my daughter thirty-two years earlier, asked that I wait in the parking lot some yards away from the entrance to the school of music. Back then, this act elicited a compliment from my daughter, “Thanks, Dad, for not being a stick in the mud,” but today, merely elicited his modern-day equivalent, “Thanks. I’ll text you, when I’m done.”
I waited in the car as he slung his musical gear across his shoulders, hauled it across the parking lot, up the steps -- exposing only his broad back and thick hair -- then disappeared inside the music hall.
He emerged an hour later, uttering monosyllabic responses to my standard questions, as we retraced our steps from Waco to Wichita.
This Evening.
If I could touch you, I would extend my arms.
If I could, I would open my eyes to greet you.
If I could, I’d reach for the boy’s phone.
If I could, I would say words to comfort you.
To assure you.
To reassure you.
That I am safe.
That he will be safe.
That I will be home soon.
That we will be together holding hands
Saying words said for the past forty-three years.
But I can’t.
Because I’m here and you’re there.
All I can do now is stay with him
Inside the car
Waiting for someone to extract us
From under a truck
From this icy asphalt
On the Interstate connecting Waco and Wichita.
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