Sometimes, I wish I could construct his memories.

The three of us are out in the woods. A perfect autumn day. Jones is beaming, amazed by everything, and Rachelle is the light that made him, brought all this into being, and I know that sounds corny but it’s true. It just is. The wind passes through some branches and a tree casts red leaves like sparks. And I envision suddenly waking into this holy moment. Jones climbing a hill, pulling himself up by the exposed roots of trees, Rachelle, smiling and laughing, chasing after him. The colours and smells all so vivid and ancient, and what were the odds that this would become my life? What miracles have fallen upon me?

But I know I cannot keep up with the robust play. I will sit in the car. Recharge my oxygen. Wait for them to get back. And as we are waving goodbye and shouting encouragements I lose myself to the inevitability of watching these two do things I cannot, of watching them move further away from me and deeper into this world, and as I am making this transition Rachelle asks if I heard that.

I am in the forest again and Jones is holding out a stick, looking at me.

Heard what?

He said, “I carry the fire.”

And it takes me a moment. The phrase, “You carry the fire,” from a book I loved about a nearly spent man trying to shepherd his son through a dangerous landscape. Foolishly, I used to repeat the phrase to Jones when he was younger, hoping to instil some beautiful purpose within, but it never took. Jones never repeated it, and soon enough I just stopped saying it to him and let it fall away, but now, standing before me with a perfect, red maple leaf pierced through its heart on the stick he was holding out, he says, “Look daddy, I carry the fire.”

That moment that easily could have slipped away– and would have if not for Rachelle’s intervention–now alive forever, blazing in a forest.

************************************

Heidi pretty old dog now.

No longer run fastest in pack.

No longer hear when hot dog fall in night.

No longer smell fresh licorice opened three blocks away.

Sometimes Heidi miss who she used to be.

Sometimes Heidi even miss who she could have been.

It true.

Heidi look out window and see lonely, wet leaves with no smell. One day Heidi be lonely, wet leaf with no smell. One day all of us lonely, wet leaves with no smell. So why can’t we all get along? Why everybody all yelling BAD DOG at one another?! Heidi no understand. But Heidi study Mindfulness and know to live in moment. Heidi brain a tool. Heidi master of tool. No need to dwell in past or in future, there is only now. Heidi live in moment.

Heidi would like Skittles in this moment.

Oh. Hold on.

Heidi now live in different moment.

Heidi was just scrolling through Twitter in Compulsion Loop and see hero dog.

This moment now belong to Heidi and her feelings about hero dog. Heidi still have the feelings. Lots of them. Very good feelings. Feelings that reach deep and good.

Heidi want some of hero dog sugar in her bowl.

Hero dog chase bad two-legger in tunnel, get electrocuted, but still keep focused, still alpha predator who dispense justice for America! Hero dog, Heidi like some of your justice. Heidi let you be barbarian at her gate. Heidi a patriot for you.

Now Heidi want Skittles and hero dog.

Heidi live in that moment now.

As told by Robert Dugger, 46:

“I hate Donald Trump. I’ve always hated him. I find there to be absolutely nothing appealing about him. Not a thing. He’s a monster. A lizard monster. This has always been my disposition toward him.

In my dream I was an invisible observer of him. Upon advice gleaned from an old episode of Oprah, Trump had started to Journal in an effort to explore his thoughts and feelings regarding impeachment, the Syrian debacle, Putin and all the other catastrophes that have followed in his wake. He sat there at his desk about to write a Gratitude Entry, and I couldn’t wait to read it, imaging his entry to be childish, noxious and shallow. I was almost feeling giddy, looking forward to telling friends about it later on.

THINGS I AM GRATEFUL FOR TODAY:

And then he wrote, “A mote of dust caught in the sunlight falling through the window.”

The words appearing in beautiful, attentive script.

I did not want this to be true. I could not believe it was true.

And then I woke up, wanting to excise whatever part of me had generated sympathy for this man. I tried to shower it off, but it lingered like smoke. I walked though my day astonished and uncertain, which I have come to understand, is not such a bad way to live your days.”

Beneath his bright, yellow backpack he wobbles up the street.

So small beneath his outsized potential.

He scans the horizon for the ice cream truck but it is not there. Like the brave warrior he is, he brushes this disappointment aside. He will show me his tree, his favourite tree.

It’s the third one.

He runs to the tree like a long lost relative, throws his arms around it. Can you remember the last time you did that? That something in this world struck you with such urgency you had to run to it? Not out of obligation, but passion. You burned for it. Not a second could be wasted. You just dropped everything and ran toward this light the future cast back to you.

I ask Jones what the tree’s name is.

“Paper.”

Sometimes his is such a small, unpredictable voice.

We talk to Paper for a little bit, and then Jones kisses him goodbye and we continue home. There is a giant stick. Things in a box. A white dog with crazy eyes. A university student speeding powerfully by on her skateboard. A truck that looked like the ice cream truck but was not. Another dog. A squirrel who made eye contact and then disappeared into a trash can.

These children, they give so much of themselves. Everything they have. Nothing held back.

And Jones is tired. He sits on the sidewalk, turns his attention to the ants. So many tiny ants. He marvels as they vanish underground and then reappear, each one the same, each one different, each one on a mysterious and dangerous journey upon which much depends.

The parents line-up by a chain link fence behind a big, flowering bush.

The teacher lets us into the school one by one or in pairs. When it’s my turn I step into the hallway and can see into the classroom. All the children are sitting in front of their cubbies, knapsacks on their backs, waiting to be picked up. Oh, they’re perfect. They truly are. Let them always remember this perfection that lives in their core.

And there’s Jones, talking with his friends. And when he looks up and sees me it is like something inside of him is switched on. The smile begins in his eyes and moves throughout his body like a current of light. He shouts, “Daddy!” and runs toward me. His uncalculated joy a living thing. He throws his little body into mine. And this is the moment I did not know I had been waiting for my entire life. It hits me like lightning, like religion.

We head home, stopping to get an ice cream cone. Cabbage white butterflies, reflecting sunlight off their wings, appear like sparks around us before vanishing into foliage, and Jones’ tiny hand reaching up for the ice cream cone. Everything so beautiful.

This golden stretch of day.

This privilege of blue skies.

However, it is now 2019 and many feel that these binary designations are insufficient, excluding those who don’t identify as either male or female. Further, the ethnic composition of the list of pre-selected names has been almost exclusively Anglo-Saxon, and so under pressure, the World Meteorological Organization has begun to diversify the pool from which they had been selecting Hurricane names.

Unfortunately, this has proven controversial, especially after Hurricane Abd al Qadir seriously damaged parts of the US east coast back in 2018. It quickly became apparent that diverse representation, at least when it came to destructive forces of nature, was not a great idea. Regardless of what was done, people were bound to feel insulted, either by inclusion or exclusion, and so naming rights are now being sold for all upcoming hurricanes. The funds used to purchase the rights to the hurricane will be used to reconstruct communities damaged by the storms, and for green initiatives. So far, the next dozen hurricanes have been purchased and branded, and here is the list:

1) Hurricane Trump!
2) Hurricane The Failing New York Times!
3) Hurricane The Fast and the Furious: Hobbs & Shaw, Opening Soon!
4) Hurricane Exxon, Security You Can Trust
5) Hurricane Vote For Joe Biden Despite the Gaffes
6) Hurricane of Apologies From the Canadian Government for our Many Failures
7) Hurricane Gaga
8) Hurricane The Super-Yacht Community Feels Your Pain
9) Hurricane Please Donate to Chron’s and Colitis: The pain is Real
10) Hurricane Pizza Hut Two for One Special!
11) Hurricane China National Petroleum Company Always A Good Neighbour
12) Hurricane China Loves to Help

Jones is four now, and the clouds are high in the sky. White against blue, they are great island chains in an unknown ocean. They move quickly, shifting, rolling past the fading moon.

Walking up the sidewalk, a lollipop in his mouth, Jones is telling me that bees are not allowed to live at daycare. He interrupts himself to wave and say hi to a bird.

His tiny, perfect voice.

“Hi, bird, hi!”

And then it is on to ants. He squats down each time he sees one, gets as close to eye level as possible. He is on his hands and knees now, waving at the ant, “Hello, are you a friendly ant?!” It doesn’t really matter if it’s a friendly ant or not, Jones will try to pick him up. “Look daddy, this one misses his mommy and died on a bush.” Such careful attention stretches our walk, stretches time into something else, and we will not be getting to daycare until a little later this morning.

Jones, some form of god, destroyer and preserver of ants, friend to birds, reaching out to everything that lives. Sometimes bringing thunder, sometimes bringing light. How does it all work? How does one know they are doing good in this world? A teen rides her bike slowly down the sidewalk, and just before she passes us, unseen sparrows, startled, rise up from tall grass–every one thing touching every other thing.

We are standing in front of our apartment on a hot and humid morning, and it is the first time in over a week I have been well enough to take him to daycare. We welcome this return, although we do not speak it. It lives in our eyes, in the way we look at one another. Everything once again in the right place. A bird chirps brightly from above and I ask Jones what it said.

“First he said hello to me then he said hello to you.”

It’s an honour to become a part of this esteemed franchise, and although I may be a little bit older than some of my teammates, Magic Mike expects to make an impact with his hustle, grit and smarts. And if I need to be a father figure to some of the team’s emerging, young organizational depth, so be it. Magic Mike is a born leader. I know where all the good steak houses are. I know where to get a safe tattoo at 4:00 am. And, goddam it, I know what a fair price for a prostitute– regardless of where the sex worker might be on the gender spectrum– is. Magic Mike can help this team grow up, and Magic Mike can help this team win. I will be making no further statements today so that I can best concentrate on preparing myself, Magic Mike, for the big game tonight. Oh, and please visit my website to purchase merchandise: