MY FIRST FATHER'S DAY

When I was twelve, maybe thirteen, Powers and I crawled through a basement window in an absent relative's house with two girls. Our goal, no doubt, was to play some kissy-face and maybe touch something unfamiliar. As Powers worked up his courage to move in--I never did--the four of us shared a wine cooler and we messed around with a Ouija board. I don't remember much more from that afternoon, but I do recall that when one of the girls asked "those gathered around us" if I would ever have children, something answered, without hesitation, "no." I don't believe any spirit actually animates the board, so it's highly likely that I pushed the planchette myself. I don't even recall anymore.

When I got divorced, in a sense I felt relieved that we'd never had children. It made things easier, cleaner, simpler. And that's how it went moving forward for a decade and more. Even after Dionne and I got married, I wasn't searching for children hidden somewhere in our own house. And then it happened and she was pregnant and I was scared and excited and worried and sad and happy and anxious. And one year later, almost exactly, the boy is three months old, and we live in a world in which it's possible for a boy to walk into a church and shoot up other human beings because he doesn't think of them as human beings. At it's most basic level, such a belief is what allowed the peculiar institution hiding in the shadows of all of this. So. I remain terrified. I am more terrified. Both Epimetheus and Pandora, I am now forever exposed. Having a child, I've realized, was like opening that box for the first time. All of the horrors of the world washed over me. But hope remains. Do you see him? He's right there. And he's looking back at me.