Sunday, February 8, 2015
Before reaching home I saw Pax craning his head from the stroller, trying to see the excavator where I often take him, so I let them play in the dirt there until wind kicked it up swirling, getting in their eyes. I was happy, though, because much more than Toby at that same age Pax will often resist playing, no matter how good the rocks, dirt, mud, plants, or water looks to me. He’ll scramble up me like a determined monkey. Not this time. He sifted the sand through his fingers. I felt like a zombie physically, but kicked alive by the wind and sun and as soft and pliable from the fatigue of fatherhood as a wadded up newspaper.