By Mathias B. Freese
I am in Chicago now. I left to visit my son, Jordan; Mary, my wife,
wanted to see her sister, Jenny, after many years away from her
hometown. By Lake Michigan, a vast expanse from shore, with its
fertile coastal area and abundant wild life — rabbits nonchalantly
squatting mutely and a flock of unruly geese surrounding one couple
on a park bench, I sat with my son going over my edits in his latest
screenplay.
That was not the bone of the matter. I had shared with him that I am
mortal man; that he should consider seeing me more frequently; that
air travel had proven hard on me, as I experienced trying to reach a
gate too far for my weary legs. Time had slowly wrecked my under
carriage. Jordan didn’t need details. He listened, he always listens
with the third ear. I went on to say at the park bench that he has ten
books, maybe eleven by next year, for his bookshelf. Whether he
reads then or not, it is a shared legacy. He listened.
I was mortal man, I knew that. He knew it before I spoke, I just wanted
it spoken out loud. His journey as a writer will be different than mine
as it must, but he is fortunate in having known one who has almost
finished his journey. There is much to be said for cuddling up to that kind
of adventurer, especially if it is your father.
At dinner at a Turkish-Italian restaurant in a Chicago suburb, my
daughter-in-law, Liz, told me that I looked so young for my age. That is
a derivative which I have heard before from others, of my drive. But I
am not fooled, aging has caught up with me and has settled in like a
roach in a baseboard.
I leave Chicago in a day, sated with the knowledge that my small
family is reasonably well and sound. I ask the gods to give me one
more year to wrap things up. And if not, I have left my son something
enduring and endearing — from father to son, with love.
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