Summers that Never End, Strength that Never Fades
2004; Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; Volume: 26; Issue: 12 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1097/00132981-200412000-00015
ISSN1552-3624
Autores ResumoFigureI remember when my firstborn son Sam, now age 7, was only 1 or 2 years old. I could pull him all day long in the blue, plastic wagon that we bought. As soon as he was old enough, I would load him in, and run as hard as I could up the steep drive that led to our home. Summer or fall, winter or spring, we would race up that hill and around our circular, shaded drive, past pine and holly, past honeysuckle and mountain laurel, dogs running alongside. Sam would laugh until he couldn't breathe, and I would run until I couldn't either. It was breakneck, reckless, and grand. Occasionally, on fast turns at the bottom of the circle, gravity would rule, and he would sprawl out. He'd cry a minute, then get up and clamber back into his little chariot. We could spend an afternoon that way. Just as we could spend long stretches of time running in circles with him held in my arms as he pretended to be Batman, a dragon, or some other flying creature. I remember because he was light, and I felt strong. I was king of the universe because I had my son (my son!) in my arms, and we had nothing but time before us. And then came Seth, two years younger. I was king of the universe because I could put two little boys in that wagon and run up and down hills while they laughed just as they still do when they play together. I could pick them up simultaneously and run through the yard, hoist them into trees, or up onto slides at the same time. I measured my age with my perceived strength. Father of two sons, I was the strongest man alive. And then there were three. When Elijah came along, I was still Hercules. The wagon was getting crowded. But I could pull it, still doing wind sprints along the flat part of our drive at the top of the circle. I always thought of it as a kind of stress test. If I could do that and have no chest pain, no gasping for air, then my heart was just fine. Of course, my heart was really in the wagon behind me. The laughter of three boys was all the fuel I needed to sail across the concrete. Occasionally they would spill out into the yard or pavement together, arms and legs flying. A few scratches, maybe, but still more joy for all of us. Picking up three was a trick, and was easier with the help of a good backpack. With one behind and one on each hip, I was invincible. Critical Mass Until there were four. Of course, Miss Elysa, the baby of the family, has never put up with any competition or neglect. When the wagon rolled out, its wheels sagging, she would climb in with the certainty that she was entitled to the first and last ride and every one in between. Four presented a slightly different problem. I thought we needed another wagon. But it wasn't just numbers. The problem was that in addition to adding more bodies, those bodies grew. Suddenly the little babies I could pull and carry all day added height and weight. We left that magical house with the hidden drive when the children were 7, 5, 3, and 1_. It was time. They were approaching critical mass, and the wagon was ready to retire. But the message to me was that I was a little weaker, a little older. It's a cruel thing that happens to parents. Time, which seems so unreal, so contrived, catches up with us. Wagons wear down. The T-shirts the children wore look smaller, and the stains on them are from long-forgotten ice cream cones. It seems unfair that at every step of the way, our children move forward at a pace that we can scarcely match. I can't pull them in the blue wagon all together forever. Besides, our new house has gravel, not pavement on the drive. The tired blue wagon sits in the backyard, sometimes used by the children to haul rocks or brush. A thoroughbred too old to race, hitched to the plow in its twilight. I can't imagine throwing it out. I think it will just stay here as a beloved artifact. Time, so unreal, so contrived, catches up with us But I am resolved to keep up the spirit of the wagon as long as I can. We have a newer, smaller wagon and a wheelbarrow. If I can't pull or push all of them, I can do it one at a time. And when that becomes too difficult, they'll be too big for wagons anyway. I can run with them, though. And when they run too well, and their hearts and lungs are too powerful for mine, I can walk with them. And that should last a very, very long time. But when it ends, I can sit and talk to them. I hope that I can keep pace with their minds for as long as I live. And if I can't, at least they'll talk to me. We have that intimacy, that need for one another's company that was forged in the delirious wonder of wagon rides and wrestling matches in leaves, of hikes and bedtime stories. So if I'm old, and if I'm confused and demented, I know that their voices will be a comfort to an old man, and will take me back to days of blue wagons and green hillsides, fig trees in the yard, and scraped knees on the pavement. I suspect they'll be pushing, pulling, and carrying me by then. In the end, I'll simply go on and wait for them in the place where summers are endless, and I have a strength that never fades away. And when they meet me there, I'll be waiting in the cool autumn air, wagon at the ready, and off we'll go.
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