Monday, June 22, 2009

Father Solstice



"Happy Father's Day." I sang to my son's father when the gold light from the window reached in and pulled his eyelids open.

The beginning to the longest day of the year--Summer Solstice the First Day of Summer-- or when the sun seemingly never sets.

For an hour we stayed in bed talking about topics that spanned all the great questions of modern day living.

Should we be waxing?

Will you love your second wife (the one you marry after I pass on to Kolob) more than me?

If you knew that running three miles every day would make you deliciously healthy would you run them?

When we heard the chirping of the baby bird in his caged-crib next door we quickly summed up all perplexities with the answer "no."

The celebrated father moved to changed his son's morning pants ("the breakfast burrito" I call it) while I showered. Then, as I smeared pink blush on my cheeks, the father and son showered together. We had church in one hour.

At church the father chased his favorite escapee all over the carpet foyer and beyond. I coaxed them back with promises of organic animal crackers and a bottle full of frothy milk.

When church released us from our worship, the afternoon promised us rain. The baby slept while the skies merciless poured down rain upon our stalwart house. It was hard, repentance-reminding rain and made me hum the tune about the wise man and the foolish man.

Are we, the wise man who built his house on the rock? Or, the foolish man who built his house upon the sand?

And the rain came down, and no (thankfully) floods came up.

I watched as a schizophrenic sky moved into the next personality. Blue sky and puffy clouds. Puffy, I guessed, from all the crying.

That is when we ate tuna fish sandwiches with cheese at the dinning room table. The father asked for medium cheddar and I had Havarti. And chips. I cut the bread too thick, but the father only winked and opened his mouth as wide as he could. I loved him for that because three years ago, it wouldn't have happened.

The boy woke up and had crackers with fruit. The father shaved and showered (again). I cleaned up the boy, changed into a summer dress (welcome back, summer wardrobe).

The boy was taken to be babysat by family and a house load of cousins.

The boy's father and I went to have pictures of us taken by the temple.

We met our photographer in the parking lot. A bright sky had swallowed the previous torrential emotion. What rainfall? It asked.

Photos were taken of us by the place where we swore before God that we would take care of each other, the boy and whoever else would like to come along. While the camera flashed I thought about how well the father keeps his promises.

We looked like we were engaged. Again. Under the luminous sky, the father asking to put on his sunglasses. It was late afternoon and the longest day proved no signs of retiring.

Two young ladies strolled by and cheered to us, "Congratulations!" and our photographer responded, "Seven years ago!" Laughing. Ensued.

By the fountains we finished. The water reminded us of drinking, our bodies were droughty.

Later in the evening the father put the son to bed. Wrapped up in his birdie blankets and secured with his night cap bottle.

"Weird, putting him to bed when it is still light outside." The father said to me as we resumed our morning bed post.

Then we watched the sky outside our window and waited until for the day to give up the ghost.

"Is it dusk yet?" I asked the father when I saw bits of stars appearing.

"Yes. This is dusk. It will be dark soon." He responded.

But our eyes set before the dying sun.



***photo by Jed Wells