The Father of the Man

I have no idea where the thought came from, but I have the clearest memory of the moment it did. I was 28, in Providence, and was sitting on the edge of my bed, rushing to lace up my basketball shoes, late as usual to meet friends for some pick up hoops. Suddenly, my head was filled with an image that I did not recall ever considering before, but something that has not faded since.

A simple, quick scene of me in my parents’ room, back in the day in Rochester, watching my dad lace up his basketball shoes on his way out for a men’s league. The room placed the date, and the date placed my age. For some reason quick math fired off in my head to tell me that in that image, my dad was the same age as I was…right then.

That was the first moment in my life that I could actually remember my father being my age. It messed me up for days. Where I was at 28 was surely, certainly, and without a doubt unworthy of the respect and awe that the 5-year old me could recall holding for my dad when he was my age. Pulling on those black and white Adidas high tops was the precise moment when I stopped wishing I was a kid again and resigned myself to being a grown up.

I’m a little messed up again these last few days. I have no idea where the thought came from, but I realized that Emma is the same age I was when my dad was getting ready for that basketball game; the boys are not far off either, really.

I'm feeling...like I need to get my hair cut.

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