Twenty-Five

Essays

Oct 4

My oldest kid turned twenty-five today. Actually, he turned twenty-five yesterday because he is in a time zone twelve hours ahead of me. When my kids were younger, we had to switch off birthdays and holidays, as most divorced parents do. It was harder than this. He is living his life. Every day feels like a birthday because we're so close. Today is just a road marker.

When he was born, it was 2001, and September 11th had just occurred. I worked for the government in a government building in Fort Lauderdale then. I was convinced something bad would happen there. Soon after he was born, we moved to Sarasota. People who don’t know Florida don’t understand the difference.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t think I look much older than I did when he was born. I mean, I look older, but not THAT much older. Let’s call it aging gracefully. I knew what parenting would mean to me. It’s all I ever wanted. My parents were both such great people; I just wanted to make them proud as a parent first. I know I have, even though my mom never met my kids and my dad only knew them for a very short time. I’m sure they’re watching.

I used to wait for their calls on my birthday, when I was an adult and away from home. Now, we text. I still write both of my kids handwritten letters for their birthdays, but yesterday it was a text. Technology is a byproduct of your relationship. My text doesn’t feel any less valuable than my handwriting, which is chicken scratch anyway, because of our bond. It’s about the message.

When I was twenty-five, I was in my second year of law school in Fort Lauderdale. I probably played pickup hoop after classes and then went out at night to celebrate. My law school years were my least introverted; I still don’t really know why. I lived in a rental townhouse in Plantation, recording raps in my living room over instrumental versions of songs on CDs, with my lyrics. My son has four albums out already.

Life is truly a winding road that goes off-path and back on all the time. We fall, we get up, we trip, we lunge, we stop, we breathe the air, we go on. We love those closest to us and allow them to love us back in their own way. We remain steadfast in the face of tremors because that is our job. Over the last twenty-five years, I have parented. What else truly matters more than that?

I wonder what the world will look like when his kid turns twenty-five. I wonder what he will write to them. I am thirty years ahead of my son, but on some days, with the wind blowing through us on a walk and the sun glistening off the distant treetops, I feel like we are brothers.