[stylist] sharing a story

[Joanne Alongi]

I like the story. A couple of the snippets might've been too long but I like it anyway.

shelley Queen of Bells out Sent from my iPhone

> On Mar 14, 2015, at 7:34 AM, Atty via stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:
> 
> Oh Chris,
> 
> What a wonderful story. I loved it. I never had a dad and the love and
> kindness so beautifully depicted in this story has me crying on this
> Saturday morning. What a fabulous way to show how love grows and changes and
> the mired of bonds that grow.
> 
> This is amazing and someone will buy it!!
> 
> One thing, I don't think babies take motron.
> 
> Love,
> Atty
> 
> 
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
> via stylist
> Sent: Friday, March 13, 2015 4:50 PM
> To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
> Subject: [stylist] sharing a story
> 
> Greetings,
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> The concept for this story came when I was thinking about what to write for
> the NFB writing contest. But, at 5000 words, it's far too long to be a
> contender. Even so, I might try submitting it elsewhere. So I'd appreciate
> any feedback you are willing to give. More specifically-how's the pacing?
> Does it hold your interest? How can I improve it?
> 
> 
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> 
> 
> Chris
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Talking To My Daughter Late At Night
> 
> 
> 
> By Chris Kuell
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> It's quarter to nine, and I'm on the couch watching television with my wife
> when we hear a pulsating bounce above us. My wife groans. I tell her I'll
> take care of it and head upstairs. Sophie, my two-and-a-half year old is
> bouncing on her new junior bed. Shortly before her second birthday she was
> capable of the incredible gymnastic feat of flipping herself over the crib
> rail and dropping to the floor in a nearly perfect dismount, so a week or so
> ago we gave in and replaced her crib with the shiny new bed.
> 
> 
> 
> "Hi Daddy!" she says.
> 
> 
> 
> I know I should put on my harsh face. It's not time for playing. It's not
> time for bouncing.  It's time for sleep. But, she's so damn cute. I've
> always heard that daughters know how to wrap their fathers around their
> little fingers, and I'm beginning to see the truth of that statement.
> 
> 
> 
> "Sophie-I've told you, no jumping on your new bed. You'll break it. It's way
> past your bedtime, so you need to get your blanky and lay back down."   
> 
> 
> 
> I'm blind, so I can't see the deflation in her so much as feel it. "I'll let
> you keep your Mary Poppins light on so you can look at your books. But you
> have to lay down. Deal?"
> 
> 
> 
> I hear her hop out of bed and run to her bookcase, then scamper back.
> "Daddy, you read with me?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Listen sweetheart. It's way past your bedtime. I already read you a story."
> 
> 
> 
> "Please! Please, Daddy. I got the fuzzy book."
> 
> 
> 
> The fuzzy book was Sophie's title for a book called Feely Bugs that my wife
> picked up at an after-Christmas sale. Each page had an illustration of a bug
> on it, enhanced by some sort of tactile embellishment. One bug had a leather
> shell, another lace hat, another ribbed belly. Tough guy that I am, I sat
> down next to her on her junior bed and she immediately climbed into my lap.
> She opened the book to the first bug, then took my finger and dragged it
> across the textured picture. We followed a fairly standard routine from
> there. I'd say, "Ahhh." at the lacy bug, and "Ummm." at the felt bug, and
> then I'd make a yakking sound and shake all over at the sandpaper bug, which
> always sent Sophie into a belly laugh so adorable I couldn't help but laugh
> along. 
> 
> 
> 
> When we'd finished the book, Sophie would sneakily go back to the sandpaper
> bug to get me to act repulsed and simulate a seizure again. After a little
> more coaxing I got her settle back into bed, covered her with her blanky,
> and stroked her baby soft hair while singing a tender,  off-key version of
> 'I'm Henry the 8th I am' until she was fast asleep.
> 
> 
> 
>    *   *   **
> 
> 
> 
> It's late, meaning past 10:30 on a week night, and my wife and I are heading
> to bed. "I call firsties in the bathroom," she says. "You go check on our
> little darling."
> 
> 
> 
> Sophie's door is open-she doesn't like to be closed in at night-and I hear
> her turning the pages of a book.
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey Sweetie," I whisper. "How come you're still up? Tomorrow is a big day,
> and you need your sleep."
> 
> 
> 
> "I'm too excited to sleep," she says. 
> 
> 
> 
> She turns to me as I close her book and stroke her head. My wife has put her
> thick hair into two long braids and I finger each before rubbing her back to
> help my little girl relax. I immediately notice she isn't in the pajamas she
> was in two hours ago. "Sophie. what are you wearing?"
> 
> 
> 
> "I put on my school dress," she tells me. "I don't want to be late tomorrow,
> so I decided to get dressed tonight."
> 
> 
> 
> I smile, and don't say anything. She's excited, and I'm feeling like I'm at
> a precipice. Tomorrow my daughter will go to school. Her world will change,
> and so will ours. She will begin to pull away from us, becoming more
> independent and more engrossed with friends and activities that we will only
> be on the periphery of. Her universe will get bigger, and yet we, her
> parents, will get continually smaller in her view. 
> 
> 
> 
> "Daddy, were you scared on your first day of school?"
> 
> 
> 
> "A little," I said. "But, I had my brother, your Uncle Dave, to help. He
> told me everything would be fine, and it was."
> 
> 
> 
> "What was your kindergarten teacher's name?" 
> 
> 
> 
> Before Sophie came along, while I was perusing the books on how to raise a
> healthy child and other theoretically good parenting books my wife
> suggested, I'd decided I wanted an honest relationship with my kid. No
> lying, no saying-because I said so. I wanted to treat her like I wanted to
> be treated, with respect and compassion. And yet, there are times when a
> little white one seems appropriate. She's facing this huge milestone, the
> biggest day of her life, and she needed reassurance that it was a big deal,
> and she'd be okay.
> 
> 
> 
> "Sure," I lied. "Her name was Mrs. Gallagher, and she was very nice. I
> wasn't as smart as you when I went to kindergarten, so she taught me and the
> other kids tons of stuff."
> 
> 
> 
> "Like what?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Oh, all sorts of things. Shapes, colors, how to tie our shoelaces, how to
> tell time, how to count to a hundred, the alphabet." 
> 
> 
> 
> "You didn't know your shapes when you went to kindergarten?"  
> 
> 
> 
> I may not be able to see her mother in Sophie, but there certainly are times
> when I can hear her. "Well, maybe not all of them. It was a long time ago.
> But what I do remember was snack time. Every day we got a cookie and a
> little carton of milk, and we got to eat our snack while Mrs. Gallagher read
> a book to us. That was my favorite time."
> 
> 
> 
> "What about the other kids? Were they nice to you?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Yes," I said, pulling her blanket up and gently rubbing her back. "Every
> kid is a little nervous. You aren't the only one. Some kids will be nicer
> than others, and some of them are going to be your best friends for years.
> You'll see."
> 
> 
> 
> I went over and started the tape player, turning the volume low as the
> narrator read Dr. Seuss' 'Yertle the Turtle'. I bent low and kissed Sophie's
> soft cheek. "I love you sweetie. Please try to relax and get some sleep.
> Tomorrow is going to be a great day. I promise."
> 
> 
> 
>    *    *   *   *
> 
> 
> 
> "Hello?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey Dad, it's me. Is it okay if I stay over at Lauren's tonight?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Sophie-do you know what time it is? You were supposed to be home by ten
> o'clock." I tucked the phone between my jaw and shoulder so I could check my
> braille watch. 10:35.
> 
> 
> 
> "I know. Sorry. Mrs. Jackson picked us up at the movies, then a bunch of
> people went over to Coconuts for cupcakes and stuff. And Lauren asked me to
> stay over, so can I?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Hold on a second," I said. "Who is a bunch of people?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Me and Lauren and Kara and Austin and Nick and Nick's cousin Stephen. Oh,
> and Tammy met us there. But I'm at Lauren's house now. Her Mom says it's
> fine."
> 
> 
> 
> Why did I suddenly feel like I was getting snowed? "We had a deal that you
> could go to the movies and Mrs. Jackson would bring you home by ten o'clock.
> There weren't any cupcakes or boys Or a sleepover mentioned." I could hear a
> dog barking and a television set in the distance, but my daughter was
> playing mum for the moment. "You don't have a change of clothes, or a
> toothbrush. And how are you planning on getting home in the morning?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Dad, don't get so uptight. I can borrow pajamas from Lauren, and I'm sure
> her Mom can find me an extra toothbrush. Come on-I'm already here. Either
> Mrs. Jackson can drive me home or Mom can come get me in the morning. It's
> no big deal."
> 
> 
> 
> "It's no big deal for you, but I don't like this one bit. This wasn't the
> plan. I don't even really know the Jacksons."
> 
> 
> 
> "C'mon, Dad. You know Lauren, and you've met both her parents like dozens of
> times."
> 
> 
> 
> I did a quick search of my memory banks. Yes, I'd met Lauren several times.
> She seemed like a nice kid, as far as giggly seventh grade girls go. I'd met
> her mother once after a band performance, and another time when she picked
> Lauren up at our house, but I wouldn't say that I knew her in any way beyond
> her having a relatively well behaved daughter who was in a couple of my
> daughter's classes and who liked pizza. Is that enough information to allow
> my only child to stay overnight?
> 
> Would she be safe with these relative strangers?
> 
> 
> 
> By this time my wife had joined me and picked up on the gist of the
> conversation. "Hold on," I said. "I want to talk to your mother for a
> minute."
> 
> 
> 
> Carolyn didn't share my stranger danger fears, but she was equally annoyed
> at the change in plans. Yet, she informed me, this was the way of teenagers.
> Since they didn't have a lot of control in their lives, they tried to get it
> in often spontaneous ways. After assuring her that I wasn't like that as a
> teen, and her giving me a look like I didn't remember half as well as I
> think I did, I returned to my daughter.
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey Sophie-you still there?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Yes, Dad."
> 
> 
> 
> "Okay, we'll let you spend the night at the Jacksons." I heard a yip that I
> interpreted as joyful, followed by dance steps of some sort. "We want you
> home by eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, and you have to promise to clean
> your room when you get home."
> 
> 
> 
> "Clean my room?" she said. "I could hear you and Mom talking, and that never
> came up."
> 
> 
> 
> Damn, I forgot how good her ears were. "Doesn't matter, it's part of the
> bargain. Deal?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Deal," she said, this time with no dancing or gleeful pre-teen sounds.
> 
> 
> 
> "Sophie, be sure to be on your best behavior. Clean up after yourself, and
> say thank you to Lauren's parents."
> 
> 
> 
> "Don't worry, Dad-I will. Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."
> 
> 
> 
> "I love you sweetie," I said to the dial tone.
> 
> 
> 
>    *   *   *   *
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey, Dad. You got a minute?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Sure," I said, removing my headphones and stopping the book I was listening
> to while waiting for my wife to return home from Chicago. She'd been out
> there three days for a convention, and I had a nice bottle of Cabernet just
> waiting for her return. "What's up? Come here and sit down."
> 
> 
> 
> "I don't know," Sophie said as she sat down next to me on the couch. "I just
> got off the phone with Daniel, and, well, I don't know."
> 
> 
> 
> "Did he say something that hurt you?" I didn't think that was it, as she
> didn't seem really upset. But it was the first thing that came to mind.
> 
> 
> 
> "No. That's not it at all. He's never been anything but nice to me."
> 
> 
> 
> "So what's the problem? What's on your mind right now?"
> 
> 
> 
> Sophie leaned forward and made a theatrical agonized 'Ummpphh..' Sound, like
> she had her face in her hands and couldn't quite verbalize what was on her
> mind. "Daniel is a really nice guy, and that's the problem. No, that's not
> the problem, but he's so good to me. He buys me flowers. He took me to see
> that jazz ensemble I wanted to hear. He always acts polite, but. but."
> 
> 
> 
> "But there's no chemistry," I said. "You like him, but there's no sparks."
> 
> 
> 
> She turned to look at me. "That's it exactly. And I just feel terrible about
> it."
> 
> 
> 
> I put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, like when she was a
> little girl. "Why do you feel terrible?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Because he's so nice to me. He buys me things. He rented the limo for
> homecoming, and took me to dinner at Tuscani's. You know how expensive that
> place is."
> 
> 
> 
> "Stop right there," I said. "Daniel did those things because he's a nice
> guy, and he cares for you, that's true. But, don't think for a second that
> you owe him anything. You didn't ask for those things, you never made any
> kind of deal with him, and it wouldn't matter even if you did. These are
> your feelings, Sophie. Feelings can't be bought or sold."
> 
> 
> 
> I pulled her even closer and kissed the top of her head. "Love is the most
> precious thing in the world, sweetie. And yet, there's no explaining it.
> There's no telling where or when it might strike. We want to think we
> control it, but we don't. There's no formula for it. Like a rainbow or a
> royal flush, sometimes the infinite number of variables line up just right
> and something magical occurs. Other times-it just doesn't."
> 
> 
> 
> "So what do I do?"
> 
> 
> 
> I paused, taking a moment to think. A part of me was so touched that she
> came to me that I really didn't want to screw this up. My own relationship
> experience was rather limited, but she didn't want to hear that. "Daniel is
> a very nice young man, and I know you don't want to hurt him. My
> recommendation is to simply talk to him. In kind, compassionate terms, let
> him know how you feel. That you like him, but you just don't think he's the
> right guy for you. Lie--tell him he'll meet somebody better."
> 
> 
> 
> This got a little chuckle out of her. "Maybe I'll send him a letter. I could
> put it in his."
> 
> 
> 
> "Sorry, missy, but that's the coward's way out." I reached out and took her
> hand in mine. "It's going to be hard, I know, but you need to talk with him
> in person. If it were me, I'd go for a walk, and talk along the way. Maybe
> around the block, so there's an end point. Be honest with him, and listen to
> what he has to say. He deserves that. Breaking off a relationship isn't
> easy, and some day you might be on the other end, so be compassionate."
> 
> 
> 
> "Yeah, but what do I say?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Well," I said. "It's going to be hurtful no matter what you say, so I
> recommend a limerick."
> 
> 
> 
> "Aw, c'mon, Dad."
> 
> 
> 
> "There once was a lad named Daniel," I said in my best theatrical voice.
> "Who smelled a bit like an English Spaniel. You're offensive to my nose, so
> you've just got to goes."
> 
> 
> 
> At this point Sophie was either laughing, or groaning. Sometimes she just
> doesn't appreciate my comic genius.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
>    *   *   *   *   *
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey Dad!"
> 
> 
> 
> "Sophie? Are you okay?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Sure I'm okay. I'm great! How are you and Mommy?"
> 
> 
> 
> "We're good. Mom is sleeping right now, or, at least she was. Do you know
> what time it is?"
> 
> 
> 
> "No-o-o-o. Do you know what time it is?"
> 
> 
> 
> "I'm not sure, but I know it's awful late."
> 
> 
> 
> "Come on, Daddy-o. It's Saturday night! It's too early for bed."
> 
> 
> 
> "Too early for you, perhaps," I said as my heart rate returned to normal and
> the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I hate to wake to a ringing phone
> late at night. My mind immediately races to either someone died or someone
> is severely injured. Instead, my daughter sounds like she's had a few and
> just misses us. "Where are you, Sophie?"   
> 
> 
> 
> "I'm down the hall in my friend Nancy's room. She's the best." I can hear
> people talking, loud music in the background. Saturday night at the dorm. I
> don't really miss those days.
> 
> 
> 
> "Sounds as though you've had a few," I said, keeping my voice
> non-judgmental. Technically, Sophie was still underage, but that never
> seemed to stop college kids from partaking.
> 
> 
> 
> "Quite a bit, actually," Sophie said. "Me and Becky split this big bottle
> of, oh, what was it? San garagiglo, I think. You ever have that?"
> 
> 
> 
> "If you mean Sangiovese, yes I have. It's delicious, especially if it comes
> from Italy."
> 
> 
> 
> "Well this one came from Justin's trunk. Justin is Nancy's boyfriend, even
> though he's too old for her."
> 
> 
> 
> "Listen, Sweetie. I'm tired, and heading back to bed. Be careful, and maybe
> it's time you switched to water or soda now."
> 
> 
> 
> "Oh Daddy, you're so funny. How's Ruby? Oh how I miss my little kitty!"
> 
> 
> 
> Ruby was the stray cat we'd taken in back when Sophie was in second grade.
> And it never failed, whenever Sophie came home from school the first thing
> she did was pet and feed and hang out with Ruby. Sure, she missed us, but
> I'm not sure our absence was felt half as much as the damn cat's was.
> 
> 
> 
> "Ruby is doing great," I said. "Let's see. today she slept, then ate, then
> slept some more. Overall it was a very good day."
> 
> 
> 
> "You give her a big smooch from me, okay? Tell her I miss her so-o-o-o
> much!"
> 
> 
> 
> "I will," I said. In the background I heard a loud crash and the music
> suddenly stopped.
> 
> 
> 
> "Got to go, Dad. Bye!"
> 
> 
> 
>   *   *   *   *   *
> 
> 
> 
> The first thing I heard when I picked up the phone was the wailing of a
> baby. "Sophie? Is that you? Is that Ethan crying?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Oh Dad," she said, sounding as though she was on the brink of tears. "I'm
> sorry to call so late, but I just don't know what to do. Ethan just keeps
> crying and crying, and Tyler is in Pittsburgh on business, and I haven't
> slept in three nights. I just can't take it anymore."
> 
> 
> 
> "Is he sick?" I said. "A fever? Did you try acetametaphan?"
> 
> 
> 
> "He doesn't have a fever, but I did give him a dose of Motrin about an hour
> ago. He just keeps crying and won't stop."
> 
> 
> 
> This was obvious, as it was difficult to make out her words above his
> high-pitched cries. "Well, He's probably too young for teething. Could be a
> tummy ache, or simply a colicky baby. He does seem to cry a lot."
> 
> 
> 
> "He's going to put me in an early grave, I swear," Sophie whined. "I fed
> him, I changed him, he doesn't have a rash. I gave him a bath, I rocked him,
> I tried reading to him, but he just keeps crying."
> 
> 
> 
> "Are you in your bedroom? Try letting him hold the phone-can he do that?"
> 
> 
> 
> Sophie's voice came from a distance, and Ethan's sorrowful wailing filled my
> ear. "He's holding it, kind of."
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey there, little Ethan," I said. "This is your Grandad, calling from
> Vermont, nearly all the way across the country. Can you hear me little guy?
> Why are you so sad? Really, you've nothing to get so wound up about. Your
> Mommy is there taking care of you, and she's the best Mom in the world."
> 
> 
> 
> I paused and listened as Ethan's cries diminished, replaced by deep,
> rhythmic gasps for air which hopefully meant his tantrum was winding down.
> 
> 
> 
> "He's gnawing on the phone, Dad. Keep talking. You seem to be taming the
> wild beast."
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey, Ethan. You relax there and while your Mommy finds your binky I'll tell
> you a little story."
> 
> 
> 
> "We try not to use the pacifier, Dad."
> 
> 
> 
> "No wonder the kid's so pissed off," I said. "Give him the damn binky. And
> you might want to dip it into a shot of Jack Daniels first."
> 
> 
> 
> I can't be sure, but I thought I heard Ethan suckling, which was probably
> what the kid wanted all along. "Okay, you two. Pull the covers up and get
> comfy. Ethan, I'm going to tell you about the vacation your Mom, Grandpa and
> Nana took when your Mom was just a little older than you are now. I can't be
> sure, exactly, but I believe she was two or so."
> 
> 
> 
> My wife, convinced there wasn't an emergency, patted my arm and turned over
> to resume sleeping. Unlike Sophie and me, she could sleep through a nuclear
> war.
> 
> 
> 
> "We decided to drive down to North Carolina for vacation, heading to a place
> called Nag's Head in the Outer Banks. It was pretty far, sixteen or
> seventeen hours, if my memory serves me correctly, but it was worth it. The
> sun was warm, and the beaches were long and sandy and very beautiful. When
> we first arrived, even before we unpacked the car at the hotel, we walked
> over to the beach to see the ocean. And your Momma, the cute little squirt,
> walked right into the water and sat down, clothes and diaper and all. Your
> Nana said she'd never seen a happier baby. Later on, we walked along the
> beach and Nana and your Mom looked for shells. Your Mom found a horseshoe
> crab, which she wanted to keep, but I convinced her it was better off where
> it lived."
> 
> 
> 
> I paused, listening to my wife's gentle breathing beside me, quiet on the
> other end of the phone line. "Keep talking, Daddy," Sophie said, sounding
> about 80% asleep. "I like it."
> 
> 
> 
> "One afternoon we were on the beach relaxing, when you got up and walked
> over to another couple who were near us," I said. I figured only Sophie was
> listening at this point. "Your mother was nervous, but I told her to just
> keep an eye on you. Well, it turns out this other couple had a box of
> Cheese-Zits, which you had spied, and wanted. So you strolled over and must
> have asked, because the woman gave you some. And instead of saying thanks
> and leaving, which might have been polite, if exceptional for a
> two-year-old, you just sat down, ate your crackers, and asked for more.
> Around this time your mother went over to retrieve you, and ended up having
> a long discussion with the couple-who turned out to be Linda and Steve
> Faroni, who we are still friends with today. And we probably never would
> have met them if not for your desire for Cheese-zits."
> 
> 
> 
> The heavy snoring on the other end of the phone was unmistakable now. I
> listened for a minute, and it appeared like everyone in my family was asleep
> but me. I hung the phone up and laid back down on my pillow, amazed at how
> the time had passed. Wishing, not for the first time, that Sophie and Tyler
> had stayed in New England rather than moving to California.
> 
> 
> 
>   *   *   *   * 
> 
> 
> 
> "Where have you been?"
> 
> 
> 
> It was Sophie's voice, and she sounded annoyed. "That's a hell of a
> greeting," I said. "No 'Hello, Dad'? No 'how are you'?"
> 
> 
> 
> ""I've been calling you since yesterday afternoon and all I keep getting is
> your machine. I was worried half to death," she said. "When are you going to
> break down and get a cell phone? Come on, Dad. Time to move into the new
> century."
> 
> 
> 
> "And get brain cancer? Or let the government track my every movement? No
> thanks."
> 
> 
> 
> She made an exasperated hrrmpphhh... sound that was alarmingly similar to a
> sound her mother still makes from time to time. "So where were you guys?"
> she demanded. "Why didn't you answer my phone calls?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Your mother and I spent the weekend at that new casino in Connecticut with
> the Andersons. We drove down yesterday morning, and didn't get back until
> almost eight this evening."
> 
> 
> 
> "A casino? You and Mom? Why would you go there?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Why go to the moon? Why climb a mountain?" I said. "Because it's there. The
> Andersons asked if we'd like to go, so we said yes. There's not much more to
> it than that."
> 
> 
> 
> "Did you gamble?"
> 
> 
> 
> "It's a casino, sweetheart. Of course we gambled."
> 
> 
> 
> "Was it fun?"
> 
> 
> 
> Leave it to Sophie to find the part of a story that doesn't add up to her.
> In truth, I'd found the casino mostly boring. It was loud and Smokey and I
> couldn't appreciate how people were dressed or how the various gambling
> areas were decorated. Basically, it cost me a hundred bucks to have a couple
> beers and get a massive headache. "The Andersons had a great time. Lou won
> three-hundred and sixty dollars playing blackjack. Your Mom seemed to enjoy
> herself, although we didn't win anything. I mean, we won a little, then lost
> it, then won a little, then lost it."    
> 
> 
> 
> "And you?" she asked. "I know you, and I have a hard time picturing you at a
> casino."
> 
> 
> 
> "It wasn't too bad," I said, knowing Carolyn was near. "It was different.
> Personally, I'd rather spend my money on a nice meal or a trip to Fenway to
> see the Sox, but sometimes you have to go with the flow."
> 
> 
> 
> "Go with the flow? Dad-do you know who you're talking too? I know you better
> than that."
> 
> 
> 
> "Anyway," I said, changing the direction of the conversation. "We're home
> safe and sound, and I'm sorry if we worried you. It was kind of a
> spontaneous trip. How about you? What'd you guys do this weekend?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Well, Ethan had a soccer game yesterday, and he scored two goals. The kid
> really is a good ball handler. Unfortunately, I missed the second goal
> because Elizabeth was being fussy, but our friend Gabby had it on video, so
> I still got to see it."
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey, that's fantastic," I said. Carolyn and I had gone out to visit Sophie
> and her family in June, and between Ethan's baseball and Elizabeth's
> gymnastics and Tyler's mountain biking, it seemed all their time was taken
> up by sports. "Tell him we're very proud."
> 
> 
> 
> "And I got a little good news," she said.
> 
> 
> 
> "Do share."
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> "My poem, 'Concrete', was accepted by Prairie Schooner, which is a fairly
> prestigious literary magazine."
> 
> 
> 
> "Hey! That's awesome!" I just about shouted into the phone. "I didn't know
> you were submitting poems anymore." Sophie had always written in her
> journals, and she'd had a few poems published in her college's literary
> magazine. For a while she'd dated a guy named Jack who played guitar in a
> band named Morphine, and he'd turned some of her poems into songs, but he
> always put a dark slant on them. The past few years she was so busy with her
> family that I didn't even know she was writing again. And that lack of
> knowledge made the chasm between us feel so damn deep.
> 
> 
> 
> "I haven't been writing much," she said. "But I thought this one was pretty
> good, and apparently their poetry editor agrees."
> 
> 
> 
> "Honey, that's just fantastic. I can't wait to read it. We'll buy dozens of
> copies to share with all our friends," I said. "Listen, sweetie-your Mom
> wants to talk. I love you, and I'm so proud."
> 
> 
> 
>   *    *   *   *      *
> 
> 
> 
> Sophie plopped down next to me on the couch. 
> 
> 
> 
> "Everybody in bed?" I asked.
> 
> 
> 
> "Mom and Tyler are both snoring like lumberjacks. Ethan's on his phone,
> probably texting Kendall, and Elizabeth is reading, although her eyelids
> were at half-mast."
> 
> 
> 
> "That's good," I said. "Everybody had a busy day."
> 
> 
> 
> My wife and I had rented a cabin near one of the mountains so Sophie and her
> family could ski. It was the kids winter break, and the first time they'd
> come East in over three years.  
> 
> 
> 
> "And you?" I said. "It's been a while since you've been skiing. How are your
> legs holding up?"
> 
> 
> 
> "They aren't," she laughed. "That's why I'm sitting with you." I heard her
> pour into a glass. "You want a little more vino?"
> 
> 
> 
> "No thanks," I said.
> 
> 
> 
> "There's only a little. We may as well finish the bottle," she said, then
> tipped the remnants into my glass.
> 
> 
> 
> "Cheers," she said.
> 
> 
> 
> I lifted my glass, she touched it with hers, and we both sipped.
> 
> 
> 
> "The kids are so big," I said. "Ethan is almost as tall as me. And Elizabeth
> is shooting up as well. It's crazy how time flies."
> 
> 
> 
> "Tell me about it," she said. "I'll be forty-five next month. Can you
> believe it?"
> 
> 
> 
> I smiled, although my emotional state wasn't exactly happy. My baby, my
> little sunshine, would be forty-five, then fifty, then sixty. This little
> girl who used to sleep in my arms must have gray hairs now, wrinkles in the
> corners of her eyes. Someday she'd be a grandmother, and it was all too much
> to fathom. 
> 
>  "Time is made up of things that are finite."
> 
> 
> 
> "Hunh?" Sophie said. "You getting all philosophical on me now, Dad?"
> 
> 
> 
> "Sorry," I said, taking a sip of wine. "It's just that you being forty-five
> makes me seventy-five."
> 
> 
> 
> "Not until August," she said, obviously trying to make me feel better. I
> ignored her and continued my thought.
> 
> 
> 
> "While you and Tyler and the kids were skiing today, and your mother was
> busy working her magic in the kitchen, as old men tend to do, I thought
> about time. Of course, I know it's all relative, but at my age, it sure does
> seem to be moving extra fast."
> 
> 
> 
> "Listen, Professor Einstein. Don't go getting all maudlin on me now. You and
> Mom are both still very active, very healthy, and I expect you to be around
> for a couple more decades. Maybe more."
> 
> 
> 
> I smiled and drank my wine. Some day she would wrestle with the same
> thoughts I grappled with now. The passing of a life is the truest measure,
> the truest understanding of time's fullness. So many lives, and each
> different. Each unknowable, no matter how similar to yours. From your own
> flesh, yet uniquely its own. And in the end, no more than a brief ripple in
> the ocean of time. 
> 
> 
> 
> "You finished?" Sophie asked, getting up from the couch.  "Can I take your
> glass to the sink? I'm beat, and the gang is going to be up before we know
> it. " 
> 
> 
> 
> "Thanks," I said.
> 
> 
> 
> "You want me to put the TV on or anything?"
> 
> 
> 
> "No-that's okay. I'll be hitting the hay in a minute."
> 
> 
> 
> Sophie bent and kissed me softly on the cheek. "Night, Dad."
> 
> 
> 
> "Good night."
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
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> 
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