Editor’s note: I wrote this piece in 1989. Even though my dad died in 1999, and my son is in his late 20s, it still captures the intergenerational relationship that defines me, my son and my dad.
He wrapped his 15-minute-old fingers around my pinky. He had a firm grip. Already he was growing. I had just witnessed his birth. It was as if I could hear him say:
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Son.”
I’ve been Dad, of course, from the very beginning. And, I’ll always be Dad in that sense. I’m Dad because of who I am.
But I’ve found, like in so many other things, being Dad is so much more than just a title. It’s not just who I am; it’s also what I do. It’s a relationship in the constant state of “becoming.” It’s like being a seed – with an endless capacity for growth.
It’s been six years now: years of walks and playgrounds, and storybooks at night. There’s been a lot of toys, sticks and rocks. Lately, it’s been “Othello,” checkers and backgammon instead of Candy Land. Suddenly, it’s also tee-ball, swim lessons and parts in plays.
It’s been explanations on how this world works: how to listen and learn; how to be good; how to trust and love. The seed has grown as we’ve gotten to know each other. I call him on the phone, and I can imagine his extending his open palm:
“High five, Dad.”
“High five, Son.”
He sees my own Dad often. They share their own kind of relationship. They’ve shared the discovery of mechanical pencils, that nifty fold-up pocket scissors, and all kinds of remedies for broken toys.
There’s been walks to nearby playgrounds and forays into my Dad’s home office.
The seed grows, and in a sense, it grows young for my Dad as it grows old for my Son. I remember happening upon them once playing at the keyboard of the electric typewriter. The 6-year-old’s fingers, small but growing in confidence, were being guided by those of a man 70 years his senior. “It’s time to eat,” I said, calling them to supper.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Thanks, Son.”
My Dad? Well, my Dad held two jobs, and seemed capable of holding more. He always seemed a patriarch. He put five kids through college and always encouraged us to grow. He’d say, “In the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as fail.”
We studied hard in school, participated in activities. I ran track in high school, edited the newspaper in college. After that, I was busy starting a career.
Then I became a Dad. Gradually, that seed started to grow again. It seems now that when I stood in that nursery and first touched my son’s hand, as I became “Dad,” I started becoming “Son” all over again. Since then, I’ve come to realize that my Dad probably sees me as I see my own Son. When I think that, I am blown away.
As he rises from his favorite chair when we arrive for our visit, my Dad puts down his crossword puzzle and folds his glasses. He lays one hand on my Son’s head as he extends the other. He smiles broadly. Without saying anything, he says:
“I love you, Son.”
“I love you, Dad.”
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 15, 2011
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