I try to imagine what Jones will remember of me.
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.
