My friend Tal introduced me to the poem “Butter Knife” by poet Hollie McNish.
Here’s an excerpt:
my heart has pumped for 40 years
without me even asking and you tell me
to keep my elbows off the table to use a
different knife for butter
caterpillars
don’t grow wings they disintegrate
completely reemerge with hieroglyphics
at their backs
meet me there in this
world where caterpillars disappear
themselves and tear drops can be
conjured out of thoughts
we are all
magicians here
our eyes from the very second we are born
know exactly how to form water out of hope
—
Emmett is going to be a high school senior. Classes start Wednesday.
Yesterday, me: “Go to the school, and exchange the broken laptop for another one.”
Him: “‘There’s too long of a line.”
Me: “Just go.”
Him: “I’ll go tomorrow.”
Me: “The line will be worse tomorrow! Just go!”
I got frustrated—but thanks to practice, I realized that the source of my anger was not him, but my attachment to plans. I (again) thought things should be done one way (my way).
But, why was I so frustrated?
The only person who would have to wait in a longer line tomorrow is him, not me!
Then last night before dinner, I got honest.
My beautiful boy sits at the kitchen table, putting pages in ring binders in preparation for school.
Me, as I walk towards him: “Hey, Bub.”
He acknowledges me, and I continue, “I realize why I have been so upset with you—I don’t want you to leave.”
Tears well in my eyes.
“I don’t want you to leave for college. I’m so mad at you for growing up. And, I’m taking it out on you sideways about the computer.”
Him: “Dad, that’s still a year away.”
I cry and continue: “I feel like a kid who was given the best present ever, and someone tells me they are going to take it away.”
He meets my blurry gaze: “Thank you. I love you, Dad.”
