A: Three Years, Old

I was three years-old. I did what three year-olds do on a quiet Thursday afternoon, sat on my bedroom floor and pushed matchbox cars through the beige carpet. I enjoyed the mostly empty house and the unsupervised alone time. 

The peace was shattered when the phone rang. It rang just once, and I heard the muffled voice of my father answer. Unaware of the life changing moment about to unravel, I continued to be a three years-old. 

I’ll never forget the light through my bedroom window that day. It was early evening soft. The kind when the sun hangs low in the sky and shadows are long. I’ll never forget my room. It was clean, or as clean as a room will be when shared by two brothers. Beds made. Clothes hung neatly in the closest. Life seemed to be in order. 

Two ticks later, my father exploded into my room. Tears flowed down his red face, snot dribbled from his nose, and streaks of saliva connected his lips as he weeped. Forever frozen in time is my father, my broken, grieving father, and the words he whispered as he scooped me up from the floor, “Uncle Todd is dead.” 

Instantly, matchbox cars were unimportant. Being three years-old was irrelevant. My immediate mission, my new calling, was to console my father. More than that, to heal him. But how? 

It was the first time I felt old and hopeless. I was done being a three years-old. 

I desperately long to go back to April 19th, 1984. I want warn that boy, to tell him awful shit is going to happen in life. He’s not called to be a super hero. Be a kid Nik! Be content to play on the floor, to take pleasure in simple moments! Your dad never intended to transfer his grief to you. He never asked you to carry his sorrow. 

Thirty-six years later, I still want to fix it. I want my uncle to live and my father to have his brother. What a creative miracle it would be. 

Today, I closed my eyes, and I saw him. That three year-old. I smiled at him, and he waved me closer. I walked closer and he held up his arms. As I picked him up he whispered, “awful shit is going to happen. Your calling is not to fix humanity. Be childlike. Be content to make messes on the floor. Find joy where ever you are. Our Father never intended any grief to transfer to you. He never asked you to carry anyone’s sorrow.

It’s time. Let go.”