Light begets dark. A roiling tempest in the heart. Tiny pricks against the skin — the sum of small crucibles eating away as they try to reach the soul. I stand near the doorway draped in the shadow you cast, the little boy through the looking glass no longer able to see the shape of the man. A stranger to this land. Almost forgotten is the person you were: what you dreamed, what you felt, what made you cry, tremble, or glow with gladness.
Tomorrow I’ll be forty‑seven. I’ve reached the summit of your passing, and looking down I think about what you saw in the years before you got here. I imagine we would have been very different people, but I was too young to really know you, and you never had the chance to know me. At this age, you had already accomplished things I never will. I never got to share in your wisdom, your guidance, or stand with you on this summit looking up at the heavens.
All you knew of me was a boy — later a teen — who was picked on and bullied by everyone. I don’t know how that made you feel. I wasn’t the strong son you could be proud of, or at least that’s how it felt. Even now, somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m restless, still trying to seek redemption not only for myself but for both you and Mom. Maybe one day I’ll do something extraordinary and prove, to myself and to you, that I truly mattered. Until then, I’ll keep climbing this mountain.
Spirit of Life Daniel Chester French, Spirit of Life, 1914, bronze, 30 x 34 7/8 in. (76.3 x 88.7 cm), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Museum purchase through the Luisita L. and Franz H. Denghausen Endowment, 2000.99 - photo by me.
