The End of Spring

Yesterday was my youngest son's 15th birthday. He's a gentle giant, over six feet tall, self-nicknamed "Ginger," with his curly red hair, a kind, thoughtful reader, video-game player, and loving uncle.

It should have been a happy day, but when he called to be picked up early from school, he was staring straight ahead, disoriented. He'd received the tragic news that shook our community of friends to the roots yesterday morning -- one of the small circle of boys he'd grown up with, gone to school with from kindergarten through 8th grade, had shared play dates and overnights with forever, was gone.

Suicide at age 14. This loss is incomprehensible. For his loving parents, a pain that will never go away. For all of us who loved him, questions that won't be answered.

The children knew, one by one by one, faster than a hurricane blows. The remaining blossoms on the trees fell quickly to earth. The wind itself finally, came to a stop. All was silence.

I tried to comfort my son. He wouldn't eat, he said he didn't want to see anyone. But he did start texting, and once that started, he and the others began to gather in virtual space. Then, later, together, at a mutual friend's house, the kids came from all over the city.

Eventually, a page went up on Facebook. Hundreds and hundreds of kids posted messages to their departed friend. In their own way, both together physically and virtually, these children began their mourning process together.

We decided to go forward with the family birthday party at my son's favorite restaurant in Japantown. Every now and again, he displayed much more emotion than is usual for him -- breaking into a kind of nervous laughter than resembled crying -- "This is a really bad day."

Afterward, back home, his big brother took him under wing. "Hey, let's go for a walk." I watched the two tall redheads walk away into the night, teens out into the hazards of a big city, with drugs, violence, and broken hearts all around. But also hope, promise, and the best yet to come.

The future.

They'd lost a friend; we all have. The young man who took his life was an amazing human being; someone who could literally have been anything he desired. His charisma at an early age touched all who knew him.

But he is gone. His parents are left with the ineffable. No words can be spoken. As a 16-year-old walked with slightly younger brother, through the night air, a small crescent of moon illuminated their way and kept them safe, while I waited alone at home for their return.

As powerless as only a parent can be.

They came back. "Sorry to keep you up, Dad,"

"It's okay."

It will always be okay. Just keep coming back to me. May the future be yours to know. May the past be mine to forget.

-30-

Rosemary on Water

All you can know for sure is that time passes. The herbal stand blooms. The wind peels away its petals and drops them onto the surface of the pond waiting below.

As they drift aimlessly, the fish look up. They know this isn't food.

The sun looks down.

The camera clicks.

A friend's husband has cancer, and it sounds bad, very bad. It's the aggressive kind.

You think back over decades about the ways in which this friend has helped you and you have helped her.

You remember her joy at finally finding a good man when they'd both reached an age where this kind of love story seemed impossible.

But, for them, it happened.

For a while, all seemed possible. They both have been in fantastic shape for their ages, which are measured by the scores, not the decades.

Still, time catches up with us all. You remember moments, when you all mixed happily. You and your partner and she with hers. There was an ethnic, national, and cultural parallel in your choices.

Your choice turned out to be a fool's choice. Hers turned out to be about true love.

Now she faces the prospect of all too soon losing her husband forever.

By contrast, you have no one like that left to lose. That's because she chose wisely and you did not. All is in balance in the end. So your heart goes out to her, for that is the greater loss, the loss of love shared compared to love imagined, but never shared at all.

For the former, memories worth sharing.

For the latter, only silence, and the utter lack of any meaning whatsoever.

The again, friendships endure. Imposters disappear. And God is watching.

-30-

Family Sunday Night

A visit to our neighborhood from one of the elite boys' teams from Manchester, U.K., tonight led to what my 16-year-old soccer player called the "most exciting Sunday night" he can ever remember.

For hours before the game, he couldn't restrain himself or stay inside -- he was racing around with his soccer ball, kicking it against buildings, fences, and practicing his many moves, balancing the ball on a toe, twirling it up to his forehead, dropping it down on the opposite heel, curling it around a leg, feinting as if to pass it one way, stopping the ball in mid-pass and reversing it.

If you've never watched soccer players as they fool around with the ball, the closest comparison I can make is with ballet. Arms and hands are strictly for balance; everything relies on your legs and feet.

In a way it is like revisiting our ancestral heritage as primates in forests, who developed startling skills with their lower extremities that no longer are required for our survival -- except on the soccer pitch.

As the two teams prepared for tonight's match -- a friendly challenge -- Aidan and his teammates were joking about how big some of the Manchester lads were. Aidan pointed to the biggest of them all, number 11, and told his buddies, "Watch, that will be the guy I have to guard."

Sure enough. As a center back, he usually draws the toughest player the opposition has to offer.

It was a fun game to watch. The English players were terrific athletes -- fast, strong, and used to playing an extremely physical game. It became obvious early on that they would win this game, but it was equally obvious that our local team was improving right before our eyes and could match up athletically, on a skills level, with a team where several of the players are already signed on with professional English soccer teams.

After the game, Aidan was all smiles. He knew he hadn't played a perfect game (#11 scored one goal on him), but he also knew he had played extremely well, disrupting at least a dozen scoring opportunities for Manchester, and more or less boxing #11 out of the game except for that one time, when the English kid made a great move, a great shot, and a well-deserved goal.

***

This, for us, was a family affair. Our extended family reaches around the globe when it comes to soccer. Little Luca was on the sidelines, cheering for his Uncle Aidan, as were his parents, and Grandma from France, herself a soccer Mom of a great player, now executive of another English team, in Liverpool.

Meanwhile, the youngest attendee by far was little Sophia, who at the age of nine days was also present at her very first soccer game! When she got hungry and started crying, the half of Aidan's team sitting nearby on the bench all turned their heads in her direction.

The sound of a baby that young is a very special thing to hear. And if you want to talk about primal reactions, try letting a bunch of teenage boys, in possession of physical powers they do not yet even comprehend, hear the sound of a newborn nearby when they otherwise would be intently watching their teammates on the pitch.

And then ask yourself what fathers are all about.

***

The game ended when the city-mandated curfew arrived and the field suddenly went dark. As he jogged off the field, coated with sweat, to greet his extended family (who were all shivering in the night air) on the sidelines, Uncle Aidan scooped up little Luca in his arms.

You know what? That was my favorite moment of all...