Another cup

of coffee.  Writing fathers, or this one in this entry, this morning.. need coffee like fish need their gills, the water around them; like eagles need those gusts and aired currents between ranges.  My son, content on the couch, and me over here writing and just looking at him, remember what that guy in the tasting room yesterday said, about enjoying every minute, they grow so fast, his son now over 6’5 and the man recalling how his son used to crawl onto his chest and fall asleep.  I could tell the passed time bothered him, or just simply made him sad.  This man also told me that he used to write but let himself go, distracted in so many patterns destructive; weight, “sex drugs & rock ’n’ roll” as he said, and other avenues that brought him to the day he met me, with that regretful mask.

It chilled me.

That will NEVER be me.

Not the father of my babies, ever..

Cup 2 waits for me.. as does Jack, who a few minutes ago said he wanted to sit with me and I told him to wait a minute and no sooner or later did he spill the Cheerios all to the floor.  I looked over and he had what I thought was a barely-registering smirk.  I became upset, but remembered the man from yesterday.  Would rather he irk me by doing this than what teenagers do.  And he’ll be one, before I want him to be.  Time will make sure of it.

8:41—  Meliss and Emma, still asleep.  She, Em, woke last night, or early this morning, but I can’t remember when— time just blends together, oddly congeals and separates then puts itself back together when you’re a parent.  It’s rewarding and maddening.  And trying to capture it all in writing’s another intriguing agitation to itself…

But I do it anyway.