Someday, Too Soon
I pause to stare at the shifting lump of blankets, which my brother had chosen to barricade himself in. It's almost winter, and it's almost midnight. He's seven now.
He used to be an infant, though I can't quite call that a miraculous wonder, because we've all been there. We may not remember, but we've been there. Our parents remember. The photographs do too. And for the younger generation, so do the videos.
And now he's seven. It's strange because, unlike when I was an infant, I do remember experiencing the world at seven years old. It was a happy time. Uncertainty would only be defined by not knowing what dinner would be tomorrow, or who was going to be next week's super kid at school, or what Arthur's next adventure would bring.
But as you get older, uncertainty gets a lot scarier. In ten years, he'll have to go through that. His smile might suffer, and I won't be there to see that.
I'm going to college next year, likely away from home.
When I graduate this year, he'll finish second grade.
When I graduate from college, he'll finish sixth grade. When I was in sixth grade, he was barely two.
When he graduates middle school, both of his siblings will likely lead independent lives, away from home.
In high school, he will be the only one home after school.
I'll come back to visit, of course. But as I stare at those blankets, I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, I'll find myself in a similar situation years from now -- except that when he comes up for air, he'll be far from the seven year old boy that he once used to be.
He used to be an infant, though I can't quite call that a miraculous wonder, because we've all been there. We may not remember, but we've been there. Our parents remember. The photographs do too. And for the younger generation, so do the videos.
And now he's seven. It's strange because, unlike when I was an infant, I do remember experiencing the world at seven years old. It was a happy time. Uncertainty would only be defined by not knowing what dinner would be tomorrow, or who was going to be next week's super kid at school, or what Arthur's next adventure would bring.
But as you get older, uncertainty gets a lot scarier. In ten years, he'll have to go through that. His smile might suffer, and I won't be there to see that.
I'm going to college next year, likely away from home.
When I graduate this year, he'll finish second grade.
When I graduate from college, he'll finish sixth grade. When I was in sixth grade, he was barely two.
When he graduates middle school, both of his siblings will likely lead independent lives, away from home.
In high school, he will be the only one home after school.
I'll come back to visit, of course. But as I stare at those blankets, I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, I'll find myself in a similar situation years from now -- except that when he comes up for air, he'll be far from the seven year old boy that he once used to be.