Sons and Fathers

I stood at the corner of Riveredge and Jefferson as the trees overhead selectively protected me from the downpour of rain. I took the usual position of waiting for my morning ride; glancing up the hill every few seconds, in hopes that my building anticipation would soon be satiated by the gleam of always-on headlights coming over the hill. As I glanced impatiently for the fifteenth time in five minutes, the motion of two people walking in my direction caught my attention.

As they came towards me, the oppressive, grey atmosphere dissipated. An impenetrable bubble of satisfaction and warmth on an otherwise gloomy day surrounded them. Step by step, the middle aged father marched forward, upright and proud, as his 7-year old son hung onto his pocketed arm. Backpack in tow and father's arm in hand, the son floated alongside with a jubilant glow. His expression indicated that, had they been presented before him at that very moment, all the toys in the world would have been relegated to frivolity in relation to what he was experiencing. He existed in the best place he possibly could be; close by his loving father's side.

As they continued past, my gaze remained fixed on them until they moved beyond my field of vision. The beauty of such a moment was beyond my comprehension. Did my fascination result from mild envy stemming from my own childhood? Was it fueled by my hopes of such a relationship between myself and my own future children? It was probably a combination of both, and a few other things.

As for the present, I'm just glad that I had a chance to vicariously partake in this rare occurance.