Four Years A Grandfather

         Why is it being a grandfather causes me to lapse into Yiddish syntax? Vas machst du, boychik? Why is it that I spent the past hour on my hands and  knees playing "Turtle"? What is it that makes the lower left drawer of my desk, Grandpa's Drawer? Could it be periodic safaris to Dollar General for fig newtons, gummy bears, chocolate bits, peanut butter crackers, Mexican Coca Cola, and such? Why is it that the smell of the back of a three year old's neck summons a Spring meadow? 

    Dorian Alexander will be four years old in two weeks.

    It will come as no surprise to most of my peers that this is a peak experience, maybe the peak experience of a lifetime. Nothing like it. But, why? I know reasons but not the reason, that taproot of evolution that goes down to the instant of beginning, the Big Bang of parentage. Why is that? I know what but not why, and, if you'll indulge me - trigger warning - I'll tell you some of what.    

    In her novel,The Tale of Despereaux, Kate DiCamillo writes, "There is nothing sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name." 

    "Granpa,Granma,Bubbe,Gamma,Pop-Pop,Poppa..." 

    Folks, do I really need to go further? 

    Sweeter notes than a Mozart flutter. Flute? Oboe? Feh. It's that voice, pure bells that chime and tinkle. I know you get it.Their voices have a chaste, unaltered quality, an innocence already nostalgic because you know it's passing. 

I can see him developing wiles, yet there is a purity about him still, an honesty manifesting in the emotion of the moment, an uninhibited joy as he embraces the instants of his life.His  innocence nearly makes me weep because mine is gone.He doesn't yet know he can't get but so close to the sun before the wax holding his wings melts and sends him crashing down. When we cross the street to get the mail, we hold hands and look both ways. I would protect him with my life, but I can't protect him against the melt. The world is going to teach him that if he attempts to leave its orbit he will pay the price. I will teach him that sometimes the price is worth it.

So, it comes down to this: Not the why but the what. I am not a social scientist or psychologist or anthro-scientist of any sort.I'm just a writer:what I feel when I look at him is like no feeling I have ever felt before.The one hundred per cent purity of it.Tainted by not one thing.A play area filled with books and charts and trucks and puzzles and lots of broken stuff. He calls it "my office". I watch him play and explore and my body swells with high octane joy,a feeling so pure as to be almost painful, a happiness so intense,a creature so innocent, so honest, so without blemish,so focused on his here and now, a happiness so fervent that I can only define it as pure love, from the toes up love, a cuddle in your arms because you make it all better love, a feeling that nothing can harm you,love, and, if it does, so what? Folks talk about love all the time. It's a common topic. There's all kinds and then there's this kind, the kind that allows you to forget who you are because this other being has taken up permanent residence in your heart. Finally,we know it at its most potent.In this state,you think your heart will perform a pole vault and stick it. Take it. Keep it. Treasure it. Who cares why? It's just a question answered in the doing.

     I am mesmerized.I need to sit.It is too overwhelming.