A cold December years ago, my son Alex and I met up with my father in Zurich to celebrate
Christmas. The morning after our arrival a snow fell in wistful slow motion, bringing a welcome silence to the streets.
On this soft, white morning my father and son
were heading out for a walk to explore the city shops. I wrapped Alex up in
gloves and a hat and wished them happy shopping. Once they were gone I moved to the hotel room
window to enjoy the sight of their forms leaving footprints along the white dusted sidewalk. I
knew their big plan for the morning was to buy me a Christmas present (which
ended up being an enormous pair of furry tiger slippers which I wore proudly
through the fancy hotel's hallways).
Yet the gift still feeding my heart is the
sight of the two of them walking hand in hand.
Alex had his own
peculiar walk. One defined by his joy and excitement. He seemed to skip and
leap in spasms, my father's arm being yanked around in it's socket. The two of
them at times seemed to tip off balance and then right themselves again. Every now and then Alex would reach his hand
out to sweep snow off the hoods of the parked cars, leaving the small finger
lines of a four year old boy. Although his movements were wild and scattered,
he held respect in the tip of his head, glancing now and then to make sure his
speed was equal to that of his grandfather's.
Beside him my
father's body hunched forward to hear Alex's tales, sharing in the conversation
and very much enjoying being slightly pulled about by his grandson. Although
his body leaned slightly, there was no missing the pride and confidence in the
steady forward movements of my fathers gait. I was sure there were occasional
words of wisdom being shared, as his finger would point to something of
interest. In his back and shoulders there was patience and presence. Time could
stand still for a bit and that would be just fine.
I felt somehow proud
to be a part of this conversation from my window. As if I had just received and
given something very true.
©Lucy Hamel
No comments:
Post a Comment