Little Blue Suit

I was at a backyard picnic, and a toddler in a dark blue suit and striped tie came toddling over to me with a smile beaming on his chubby round face, exclaiming that I was his “best friend” and reaching his arms out wide for me to catch him. I knew that this was my son, a son that I had never had, as though he had toddled his way out of some other life that I had never lived. Everyone turned in surprise as he called out to me, and they chuckled over what he had said. I scooped him up as he came to me, and I hoisted him up by my shoulder so that he could see over everyone’s heads to a spot in the shade of the house where the hosts of the party were releasing dozens of red and yellow balloons into the air. As the balloons sailed up into the clear blue sky, the boy tapped me on the back of the head with his little hand to get my attention, and he pointed towards the balloons with his stubby finger, and he nudged my chin trying to get me to look, and I turned and squinted as the balloons sailed past the glaring afternoon sun.

There was something in these gestures, this tapping on the back of the head, this nudging of my chin, that gave me a glimpse of the man he would become. I knew that over time, he’d get bigger and older and come to match me in height and stature, and there would be those grudges between us, as there tends to be with fathers and sons, something distant and awkward. But I also knew that this moment would stay with me, that open-hearted declaration of friendship, that gentle nudging of the chin, and despite anything else, it would always be between us. So we both beamed and grinned with the sunlight in our eyes, and we watched as the balloons sailed off over the tops of the trees and the roofs of the houses.