Where Grass Grows

It’s two in the morning when you wake me up, but that’s okay because there’s fog outside instead of snow.  But even if it was cold, I’d sit with you.  I’d stay up and lean my head against the upper bunk, but I won’t fall asleep.  I won’t forget this.  I won’t forget.

Tomorrow, you’ll scream and yell when I want you to eat pasta sauce with your pasta.  And you’ll grin to make it okay, and it will be okay, because that’s how it goes.  There will be banana in your yogurt, and a couple of chocolate chips at the bottom, that you scoop up with surprise.  It’s the largest smile I ever saw.  Tomorrow you’ll forget this.  But I won’t.

By summer, you’ll be riding a bike.  And you’ll be reading.  And pony tails will look okay on you, and people will even say you have long hair – it never occurred to me that someone so young could have long hair.  You won’t fall on the sidewalk once this summer.  You won’t once come home with your knees ripped up, needing a band-aid and some ice cream.  You’ll have forgotten that that ever happened to you.  But I won’t.  I won’t.

Next year you’ll be in school.  Away from the home half a day a week, stranded with your teachers.  You’ll scream, won’t you, on the first day; or maybe like your brother you’ll surprise me and just go.  Maybe you’ll come back for a hug or a kiss.  Or maybe you’ll forget, because you’re excited, and you’ll just go.  This time I won’t come after you.  This time I’ll let you go.

In two years, you won’t sit on my knee.  You won’t play with my ear.  But I hope you’ll still listen to music with me.  And walk the forest trails listening for every bear and wolf.  And by then maybe you’ll be playing the piano a little bit, likely better than me.  And by then you’ll have forgotten this night.  And the dreams.  And that I showed you what fog looks like in January, how thin it is hovering above the last of the snow piles.  You’ll forget.  I know you will.  And that’s okay.  That’s okay.  Because I never will.

Dream hard, rage hard.

49 thoughts on “Where Grass Grows

  1. Trent … you wanna talk about being a wonderful writer. This is it. Just incredibly evocative of the feelings of fatherhood. I’m commenting here also about your question about the Weed Therapy excerpt I posted on my blog today … the story is semi-autobiographical. It’s about a man who is unhappy with his marriage, his family, his life. He “runs away” for a few days to a little village in Mexico and spends those few days with an old priest who offers a few life lessons along the way. The flashbacks and many of the feelings expressed by the old character are about 99% true based on my own feelings and experiences within my family life. Sadly, I have yet to find a way to run away to the little Mexican village.
    Thanks for your favorable comments about the tease that I posted.

    1. I much liked it, Midget. Perhaps I never quite clued in that you are a writer of prose. The story felt fictional in a convincing way; was not sure if it was true or not, which means it must be good. You have an interesting back-story.

  2. Ha! Trent! Trent!! Trent!!!
    Who are you? I think you are the superhero who is disguising.

    Hurtful, sad, beautiful, painful, hopeful, solemn.
    It’s a gift to be able to really UNDERSTAND -not just know/guess -how another is feeling. It’s not so surprising -sadly- when young ones do things they wouldn’t have done had they known how their care-givers felt.

  3. This is very…heartfelt. Everything that needs to be noticed…felt is there, in those words of yours and in between them. A different – yes, I would call it perspective. A beautiful one.

  4. Very wonderful. It makes me happy that one day, when I have kids, I will be able to experience something like this. The experience of love, and happiness for someone who you can’t not love, yet also showing bittersweet feelings towards watching that person grow and change. It was very nice to read, thanks.

  5. i used to think parents are grownups and should think like grownups and their minds should work like grownups however that is. now that i am sortof pretending to be (trying) a grownup and hoping to be a parent someday i read this and remember/acknowledge/surrender to the fact that parents and grownups are writers and humans too. i am a writer. i am a human. sometimes i still feel like a child too, just sometimes. and we feel all the feelings that creative sensitive people feel whether they are grownups or parents or just human. thank you for this. it is a relief to know when the time comes for me to be a parent, that i may still be a writer and sometimes, just sometimes, a human too. 🙂

    1. A number of comments on this post, but as it’s personal and this blog of mine is not really a personal thing, I didn’t really reply beyond thank you’s. But your comment is like your poetry, and I find your last line there to be perfect. Yes, there is a way to move away from your own humanity, even to be a parent. Yes, there is room for all – the parent may even find that staying in touch with their own humanity enhances the work of parenting.

      I thank you for your comment my friend.

      1. 🙂 thank you my friend, and as all the other readers too, i loved it. i will keep this in my heart, coz i know there will come a day when i search for my humanity and maybe i too will find it early one morning hovering between keeping close and letting go. ps: i think a blog becomes personal as soon as you find there is someone out there in cyberspace who sees the you in your words no one else notices in your being.

      1. I’m doing well I’ve been busy lately sending qeuries into agencies, I’m hoping to hear some feedback at least.
        Yes the writing is progressing well.
        How have you been?

  6. say it’s not personal…but you’re a dad and this is how it is. ’nuff said. except…bravo. I loved it and felt it. as a mom AND as a human. well done lewin

    1. This one’s a bit personal, honestly, so I wrote it and let it be. Thanks southern belle – great to be hearing from you again. There was a certain vacuum here while you were off.

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