Snapshot

An afternoon in the winter of 2025

The earth laughs beneath my heavy feet

At the blasphemy in my old jangly walk

-Billy Corgan, “Thirty-Three”

I back into the driveway and just sit.

Here is where the podcast would stop, the thinking would stop, and for a second I would be still, unburdened by conscious thought.

Today I am still working, on the phone with the sister of a deceased brother, a familiar voice whose face I would not know if I saw it. I have an update to deliver, productive if not positive news, and our conversation nears its end as I put the car in park.

I’m vaguely aware of the scene before me. Trees all around. Driveway stretched out in front. Our home to my right. Cool in the car. Cold outside. Unmelted snow. The quiet rumble of the idling engine.

Yesterday’s shallow fall has yet to leave us, and breathes a sigh of relief at night’s cold approach. It clings to the sheltering shadows of branches and building, losing ground only in the unprotected middles of the yard. Here, blades of grass have clawed their way through the avalanche, their slanted tops straining to get a peek of the light.

The lane is Dalmatian in color, the packed white sheen speckled here and there with the black of frozen limestone and millings. An overcast gives the illusion of early dusk. Of quiet.

Of peace.

When the call ends, I will enjoy this moment. It serves me, but must be managed properly. Rush it and I risk bringing my chaos into the house. Remain for too long and I risk falling asleep.

Inside, my wife is an hour away from ending her day’s work. The dog suspects I am home, but waits for visual confirmation before displaying his excitement. My son should be inside right now, too, and is most likely eating a snack and reloading his lunchbox for tomorrow.

He should be, but he’s not.

The still of the world outside of my car is broken by movement.

It’s him.

He begins as a shadow, snapshot flickers of motion seen through the latticework of winter’s bare branches. Flashes of man-made color reveal his blue camo backpack, a burden once equal to his size that now is beginning to fit like it should.

His bus was late.

It’s him.

He ambles past the end of the trees, emerging into my scene with all the wonderful chaos that his ten year-old frame can muster. He wears torn and stained khaki-colored pants, today’s fresh mud-and-grass tattoos winning the foreground from the mud-and-grass tattoos of days and months now past. Despite the cold, his jacket is tied around his waist, a frontless kilt that flaps underneath of his backpack with each jouncing stride. His coat is undoubtedly stuffed into the blue monstrosity on his back.

His feet angle outward, their length just a tad too much for his height. He lands on the middle of his foot, subtly rising to his toes before taking each step. His gait, while perhaps not optimal, is joy embodied, hope in motion.

His mouth is moving, his lips in an “O” and his teeth clenched as he airplays the rhythm guitar part of “Creeping Death” or “For Whom The Bell Tolls”. His head bobs along to whatever his mouth is doing, unaware that he is being watched, no different than if he were. He believes he is supremely talented at this, at “making music with his mouth”.

The sister has one more question, and I hope to have it answered before he reaches my end of the lane, but it becomes evident that it will not, and that’s okay. She, too, deserves my attention.

He’s ten feet away before he sees me.

It’s unusual for me to be home when he gets off the bus, and so he doesn’t seem to process that my car is in the driveway. His singing/air guitar/ self-talk is covering the quiet hum of my engine. His imagination is covering any sensation outside of immediate danger.

He starts to walk past the car when he senses my eyes on him. Maybe he can feel my joy, my heart filling as I watch him approach. Maybe he finally hears the engine, feels the multi-ton object that isn’t “supposed” to be there on his right. Whatever it is, he notices me.

He notices, and the look on his face rearranges my life.

In the moment before he sees me, he is in another world. He’s on a stealth mission, catching passes, or fighting aliens. He’s playing guitar on stage, passing someone’s guard, or building a battlebot. Whatever it is, I won’t ask, and will never know, but he certainly doesn’t seem to be on this planet.

I’m content to watch him stroll on by, fascinated by what he does when he doesn’t have an audience. I love watching his mind as it manifests into the outside world, the minute glimpse into the universe of his imagination. He is still unafraid to put his thoughts on exhibit through his actions.

Dad being home at this hour isn’t part of today’s equation. As such, he doesn’t expect to see me, wasn’t searching me out as he walked down the lane. How lucky I am that I catch him by surprise.

How lucky I am.

There’s a ripple in his fantasy, a disturbance in the force. Nearly imperceptible, he swivels his head- first to the left, and then to my multi-ton hiding spot on the right.

He sees me, and he leaves his fantasy world immediately.

His face is split with the “Oh my god” grin of the pleasantly surprised, his eyebrows lifting near to his hairline with the shock of it all. His small chest heaves, rising in the way that precedes a belly laugh or a deep sob. He waves the wave of a child 5 years his junior, fingers splayed and hand rotating back and forth on the wrist.

He is HERE.

Fully.

Beautifully.

HERE.

He hurries to the passenger door, fumbling with the handle while I work to unlock it. The mechanism defeated, he realizes that the seat is full of lunchbox and backpack, tough to surmount while laden with burdens of his own. Undeterred, he races to the driver door, which I am (regrettably) a hair late in opening. My sluggishness leaves him standing in front of the door, blocking its path, and so I roll the window, his arms reaching for me before it has descended past the halfway mark.

He sees that I am on the phone and so does not speak, content with reaching in for as much hug as he can get through the chest-high portal. His hands reach to my shoulder blades, his heels elevating to buy him another inch, until I lift him further into the car. His feet are off the ground, now, gravity, balance and his backpack no longer his burden to bear. I clutch him to me and he clutches back, the smell of him filling my nostrils and reminding me of all that is good in life.

This moment cannot last forever.

I lower him back to the ground, and it is here that we regain our composure. He adjusts his pack, looks me in the eye, and nods. I smile at him, content to exist in this moment for as long as he’ll have me, and nod in return.

He waves goodbye before walking into the house, a stoic gesture this time, the fingers closer together and lacking any rotation.

“Bye dad, see you inside.”

What had to align for this to happen?

He could have seen me earlier, too far away for me to see the look on his face when he noticed I was home. He may have used the opportunity to sneak through the woods in an attempt to scare me, banging on the window and prompting an irritated “I’m on the phone.” I might’ve been looking down when he made the all-important connection, or been too engrossed in conversation to give it the respect it deserved.

These moments elevate my meager Human understanding to a level from which it cannot descend. If there are words to describe the sheer wonder of this interaction, I am ignorant to them.

I am ignorant to them, and believe it best to remain so.

This moment is FELT. Intuitive, pure, and whole. Experienced and let go so that its impact remains intact.

If I were to analyze it, I might shred it apart.

I don’t speak to him about these moments, what they mean or what they do for me. Some things are better left unsaid, unanalyzed, lest the aforementioned inadequacy of my vocabulary deaden the momentary connection, the influence of my external experiences severing us from the source in an attempt to do the opposite.

No, I think it is better to keep the connection as pure as possible, to take these moments as they come and store the understanding they provide without expectation of a full picture.

To sharpen my ability to see them.

One thing is clear…

I love this young man with everything that I am, and feel certain that I was born to do so- to teach him and learn from him, to protect him, and to keep his heart open to moments like the one we experienced today, to open my own so that we can share them.

He’s living proof that we have answers to life’s most important questions innately wired into our existence, that an open heart (one capable of experiencing life at its intimidating fullest) factors among our most valuable traits, and that we are capable of finding purpose in the seemingly simplest of moments.

How lucky I am.

Thanks for reading.