Whatever Year It Is

Two Thousand and Eighteen is

coming to an end. Similar to other

ends but so different. As such I feel

as though a little perspective on

the passage of time might be called

for.

Earth is generally believed to be

geologically 4.543 Billion years old,

which makes the passing of 2018 seem

somewhat insignificant. Just another

cosmic trip around the Sun, no biggie.

Another minor tick on the universal clock.

The Hebrew calendar indicates this is the

year 5779 which is clearly ahead of the arbitrarily created

Gregorian calendar, again, meaning very little

regarding the passing of 2018 into the histories.

Again, just another year swept under the

proverbial rug like so much dust.

Buddha, being a little older than Jesus H. Christ,

means Buddhists believe this is the year

2554. Again, making this burgeoning 2019 seem

rather anti-climactic, before it even begins.

I’m actually sort of sad I’ll never see the

Gregorian 2554. Maybe we’ll get those flying cars by then.

Islam believes this is the year 1439, which

is flattering for the Earth I’m sure. Everyone likes

being told that they look 1439 years old when

they’re really 4.543 Billion. Earth might get out

her hot pants and head to the club, get her

booty-quake on.

The Chinese calendar marks this year as 4716.

Which makes for very awkward oversized

New Year’s novelty eye-glasses. The Chinese

have a culture steeped in history, and documentation

of that history, so I’d bet they’re pretty close on

actual human engagement of year counting.

The Japanese calendar is a little tougher to figure

out since they mark the passage of time through

Imperial years, or rather, the

length of the Emperor’s reigns.

So, I’m not really sure what year it

is, but pretty damn old.

And to put it all together means…

Well…, I’m not really sure.

I’m not sure it has to mean anything

other than to remember that we’re

all on this sexy, booty-quaking, planet

together, regardless of what year we believe

it is.

It is in that perspective, I hope the

New Year, this 2019, marks the high

point of our shared blue dot as it makes

it’s yearly rotation around a minor star,

in the vastness of cosmic wonder.  I hope

2019 is a year for peace and prosperity,

acceptance, intelligence and love for all

believers. For whatever year it is.  

Happy New Year!!!

Merry Christmas To All

The tinfoil star appointed

to the top of the garbage

pile tree. Placed there by

dirty fingered hands, below

gnarled knuckles in natty finger-less

gloves.

The star, folded neatly,

with precision, glittering

from the passing headlights

of cars speeding past.

Holding sway over the souls

to pass its way.

An underpass Christmas,

a birthday for Jesus,

amid the squalid refuse

of more affluent Holiday

celebrations.

A can of cranberries for

a Christmas feast.

The underpass residents,

gathering ‘round the steel

garbage barrel, a sight rarely seen,

to warm themselves by the garbage

fueled fire, the crackling of

wrapping paper burning fills the night air.

Here’s Crazy Jerry, the Vietnam Vet,

he’s found some red wine, but he’s

not sharing, and that’s okay, since

he’s off the opioids. It’s a miracle

he’s made it to this Christmas at all.

He’s smiling for once.

Cat Woman Wanda, she’s made it

to, with three of her four little kittens,

she said one didn’t make it, hit by a car,

that didn’t even stop. She scratches at the

claw marks across her cheek. It looks

infected, but she says it’s fine.

The garbage pile tree, anemic and thin,

looks dressed up with its tinfoil star, 

a burrito wrapper made beautiful by Frank

the Beard, who said in a past life he was somebody

with a big house and fine cars, but lost it all

to booze and women. But he could craft.

Christmas Night, silently surrounding this small

band of humanity, as they shuffled

for warmth around the burning barrel,

they each took a mouthful of the cranberries,

and passed it to the next, sharing with each

other this thing called charity.

On Christmas Day, they will be gone,

each to their own paths, lost in memories,

destinies, and the next moment of momentary

warmth. Their story is the story of all

Christmases. Christmas is for them.

And a battered tinfoil burrito wrapper,

made into a star.

Prospecting

Anticipation is greedily

eating at my guts.

I’m excited at some

prospects and terrified

of their possibilities.

On one hand, I can get

what I want; on the other hand,

I have to deal with the hands

of others getting what they

want.

The limbo of being perpetually

in between giving and taking,

of offering and receiving,

of selfishness and generosity,

spinning into a mishmash of

some equivalent nonsense.

It is all in an effort to obtain

balance. Balance teetering on

the edge of a cliff, while hoisting

an elephant on your shoulders,

and having to pee without a

restroom in sight.

It is unclear why we have

to heft this elephant onto our

shoulders, but it seems like the

thing to do to achieve fulfillment

and fulfill the wants of those others

that need to be fulfilled.

Blathering nonsense, wrapped in

profundity, carved into the landscape,

through which we must trek, burdened

like wagon oxen or pack mules, in the

hopes of reward.

My stomach, grumbling like a gold

prospector hoping to hit the mother

lode and then not share it with anyone

or ever reveal its secreted location.

But maybe leave a map, X marking the spot.

Anticipation; will it

live up to expectation,

are expectations unrealistic,

is hoping for the best, planning

for the worst a fair strategy?

We seek surety in an unsure

world, a balance between

what will be, what can be, and

what we can control, adjusted by

variables of all sorts.

It is the stuff of life I suppose,

neither at the helm absently

steering or rigidly focused on

the path ahead.

My guts, eaten by anxious possibilities.  

               

President Santa (Or is this too on the Red Nose?)

Santa flipped the bird at

all the little children standing

in the line to see him. The mall,

crowded with the dead eyed

shoppers baffled that

a mall is still a thing, paused.

The children screamed in confusion,

parents looked up from their phones.

“Shame! Shame on you,” shouted

a Mother. “What the hell man?,”

shouted a Dad. The line didn’t

stop. The Christmas music played on.

“Screw you, you greedy, needy, little

bastards. I’m frigging Santa Claus and I

can do what I want because I’m protecting

the Elves from disorder and chaos,” shouted

Santa. “Your children are all retarded, but

you know, I love the retards.”

“Isn’t Santa just the best. He really tells

it like it is,” said the Elves. “Where would

we be without Santa Claus right now? Knee deep

in Eskimos coming to take your jobs for sure!

Santa is the only one that can keep us safe!”

The parents shrugged and went back

to watching videos of pandas masturbating

or checking if that new toy is in stock and if

it’ll be delivered before Christmas and where

to buy erotic chocolates, not as a present, but

just for a snack.

“That’s right, only Santa Claus can keep you

ignorant assholes safe from the horrors of those

dirty Eskimos with all their seal killing and caribou

slaughtering,” shouted Santa as he casually groped

the rear end of a passing Elf.

“You love it sweetmeat,” snarled Santa.

“Okay, what little boy is next. No girls. Because girls only

ask for girly stuff and I don’t make girly stuff.

I make trucks and trains and buildings and

military grade plutonium for boys.

Not Girly stuff like, lingerie or tampons

or dolls or whatever girls use,” said Santa Claus.

A few parents, flabbergasted, grabbed their

children by the arms and dragged them

out of the long line. A few parents laughed

and told their kids that Santa was right.

A few parents weren’t there so the kids

had no direction at all.

“Oh, man, is it eleven o’clock already,” asked Santa.

“It’s time for my nap. See you dicks later.”

Santa stood from his cardboard throne,

pulled his sagging pants up, scratched at

his testicles and turned toward the door

marked Santa’s Workshop.

The Elves, in their prideful shame followed him.

“Toss sweetmeat a few bucks to keep her quiet,” said

Santa to his loyal first Elf.

Santa farted loudly and went to his suite for his

morning nap.

“Dad,” asked a small boy, “is Santa Claus coming

back?”

“God I hope not,” said his father.

“Good,” said the boy.

Yule Get it One Day

Rows of colored lights

strung across frosty winter

windows, wreaths of pine

hung on doors, stockings

placed over family hearths,

and a family huddled under

a colorful blanket, sipping

hot coco in front of a roaring

yule fire.

In the background of this

scene, Bing Crosby gently

croons about being home for

the holidays and counting blessings

instead of sheep, the fire crackles,

the flames shimmering off the

bright wrapping paper of gifts

under a festive fir tree.

A curious satisfaction rests on each

family member’s face as they sit quietly

enjoying the coziness of the holiday…

And this is where my holiday spirit

breaks down. In each version of this

poem or story, the roof caves in on this

sweet, contented family, crushing them or

the fire gets out of control in the fireplace

and the house explodes, and Christmas time

is ruined for years to come.

The son, a survivor, winds up in a

Chinese prison, the crippled daughter,

spends the rest of her life clutching a

burned dolly as she stares out the

window of some hidden away mental

hospital.

I cannot seem to just write a happy scene

without dropping Stephen King’s foot on it

all. It’s probably my own problems with this

holiday season. A time that should be spent

on family and peace and joy, that seems to

forsake the hardships, troubles and ills of the world.

There’s something quixotic

and diametrically opposing about

Christmas Time. On one hand,

it is a gentle time to embrace loved

ones and share in each other’s life,

on the other hand, it’s a cruel knife

jabbed into Santa’s back as he delivers

presents to refugees in some forgotten

back-water camp.

My confusion is based in the commercialism

of the holidays, Catholic indoctrination and

Hollywood mythology, would be my guess.

I want there to be peace and love and joy all

over the whole world, but I’m practical and

a realist and I know that even on Christmas day

people will die, some violently I’m sure.

My conscience will not be assuaged with

charity work though. It hardly seems like enough,

or is it all that we can do? It seems Sisyphean to

roll up the sleeves one day a year and expect the

hardships and troubles of the downtrodden to be cured

with a little Christmas cheer.

So maybe that’s why I wish the roof would collapse

on that idyllic family scene. Or maybe, by staring into

the roaring flames of a comforting fire while sipping

coco, I can ignore the troubles of the world. Maybe that’s

what Christmas is really about now?

Well, it’s still a few weeks away. I’ve got time

to figure it out I suppose.

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.     

In The Mud

In form, we are but mud,

smoothed and shaped,

mixed and churned,

blended into existence by

natural and unnatural forces.

Mud; heated and cooled next

to an enormous nuclear ball,

hardened and wilted, eroded,

molten and changed, in the image

of and by the whims of the universe.

We are but mud, a soupy mix,

stirred together in a puddle,

coalescing into the rock and mortar,

the sand and ash, of an unforgiving

world designed to test our muddy hearts.

It is the same mud for us all,

the same dirt, the same sticks and

stones, the same stardust, the same

wretched curses of time, erosion and

shifts.

It is the soil that we sprouted,

of which we will return, that

blood spills upon, that absorbs

us and distributes to the next tributary

of hereditary.

We are molded by older hands,

muddy clay that is smacked, cut, stacked, shaved,

turned and told that we are special,

unique and that our production was

important.

A vessel of hardened mud, delicately

filled to breaking, yet holding its form,

cracking and chipping ever so slightly,

along the way, repaired and sealed

with patience. All mud. All the time.

All the same mud.

Perplex-Giving

Thanksgiving.

A Holiday drenched in

memory and nostalgia.

I’m never really sure if

I like it or not.

Its History and tone

confuse me.

As a child we’re told that

it celebrated the survival of

the Pilgrims with the aid

of the Native Americans.

It was mildly celebrated,

on and off over the years,

Thomas Jefferson wanted nothing

to do with it and didn’t

celebrate it at all.

As we got older, we learned

Abraham Lincoln made Thanksgiving

a National holiday during the

American Civil War in 1863 to help

bring about some hopeful peace.

It has been observed since then. (More or less.)

Yet, I’m perplexed by it. I always

have been. It is a strange story of

two peoples, getting along through

tough and changing times, only to

eventually have one people practically

wipe the other out.

It is a holiday confusingly doused in

blood and dirt, wiped off, shined up,

and put on a display shelf, but still

infected with an odious, dubious,

past.

Here we are again, faced with a Holiday,

a Holiday season in general, tinged with

sadness, horrors and a sense of casual unease

with the state of the world, our nation

and in some instances, with each other.  

I don’t honestly recall a recent

Holiday Season that wasn’t touched

by some unrelenting grief. I can’t really

remember the simplicity of childhood

wonderment at the feasts, laughter and

obviously, wine induced euphoria of the Holiday.

I’m deeply saddened by the roughness of

this holiday, the coarseness of which we have

to carry on through it, pretend to see the

laughter in each other’s eyes but commonly

disavow the depression present there too.

We will feast in the face of famine,

we will drink in the face of sobriety,

we will fight in the face of reason,

we will ignore in the face of horrors,

we will laze in the face of hardships.

What are we?

Are we celebrating the work of

Colonial Entrepreneurship?

Are we ignoring the past and future

to revel in the present while simultaneously

ignoring it?

I’m quite perplexed by this holiday.

I’m very confused by us.

I’m not sure about it at all.

Perhaps, in the gathering of family,

friends and loved ones (maybe not so loved)

we can start to clear up some of this confusion,

to wipe away the muck of history and re-classify

this Holiday as one in which we can be proud of.

A holiday celebrating our humanness, our

universality, the fact that we’re not so different,

from one another, that violence is not an answer,

that hate has no place, that an open mind is

one of the most beautiful human traits we have.

Maybe that’s the solution to my confusion,

perhaps over cranberries and mashed potatoes,

we can try to heal each other, really see each other,

all of us, together and maybe; that is something

to be Thankful for.    

The Reveal

The painting, I have been told,

is already on the canvas before

the painter starts, the painter

just has to lovingly reveal it.

Much can be said about the

sculptor, tenderly releasing the statue

hidden in a block of stone, a figure

that was there all along.

A poem however, doesn’t feel

like it’s always on the page, waiting

to be revealed. The page is always

empty until it is filled.

A poet and the page are like

well accustomed rivals vying

for the affections of the same

lover.

The poet writes the word,

the page judges it,

the poet erases the word

or forces the page to take it.

The page never relaxes its

criticisms, but fights to keep

itself blank and crisp and clean,

unsullied by poetic rambling.

The poet, furrowed brow, can’t

understand why the words are so

lofty and lovely in their head but

so flat and obtuse on the page.

The page needs to be impressed

and smooth talked, complimented and

soothed into accepting the poet’s

need for expression.

There is no stone to chisel away

or paint contoured into a shape

that was already there. The words

have to stick to page’s slippery surface.

The poem lives, breathes,

rides the emotional wave of

each reader’s perspective before

expiring in memory.

It was not there before,

it may not be there after,

it is transitory

and illusive.

Only the page knows if

the words will live or die

in the chests of the poetic

beating hearts.

The poet, unknowing,

persists in hope,

the page will reveal some

tenderness and love it so harshly withholds.  

Therapy on a Cold Day

                Charlie rested his chin in the crook of his arm as he leaned on the window ledge. He watched as melting snow dripped slowly down the window in a pointless race to the sill. He looked out at the gray November morning. The day had hardly begun and he was already feeling sad. He had spent most of the session staring out the window.

“How do you talk about the un-talk-about-able,” asked Charlie finally.

“What do you mean,” asked Charlie’s therapist, “you know there’s nothing we can’t talk about right?”

Charlie pressed his index finger against the glass window and traced the path of a descending water droplet. The glass was slightly cold. Charlie felt the chilly numbness in the tip of his finger. He pulled away from the window. He turned in his lounger chair and faced Dr. Applebaum.

“Yeah, I mean, sure, we can talk about anything, but what about the things we’re not supposed to talk about,” said Charlie.

“Charlie, really, there’s nothing we can’t talk about at all. Everything is fair game. I’m not here to judge you or tell you if what you’re thinking is right or wrong. I’m just here to help you get to the core of what’s troubling you,” said Dr. Applebaum.

Charlie looked around Dr. Applebaum’s office. There was a single motivational poster on the wall featuring a humpback whale cresting through the ocean in a flurry of white foam. The motivational phrase didn’t seem to relate to the picture of the whale. It was some claptrap about achievement or over-coming adversity. Charlie didn’t care for it. Dr. Applebaum had multiple certifications and degrees framed on the walls. There was one slowly withering house plant in the corner that had obviously been neglected for a few weeks. There was a little dust on the bookshelves Charlie could easily see.

“I’ll tell you Doc, there’s a lot troubling me, but I don’t really think it has anything to do with me,” said Charlie.

“How so,” asked Dr. Applebaum.

“Well, the world seems mad Doc. Like, no matter what I do, with good intentions, love in my heart and sympathy in my soul, and doing what I’m told, the world keeps trying to kill itself, along with all the people in it. How do we talk about that,” asked Charlie.

“Those are pretty large-scale problems for sure. The world is indeed a complicated place, but perhaps we can try and bring this down to a more, individual perspective,” said Dr. Applebaum.

Charlie nodded absently. He had already decided that this was dumb. Charlie didn’t feel depressed. He was sad. There was a big difference in his mind about the two things.

“Yes, big problems for sure,” said Charlie, “the whole thing though, the whole mess of the world, the people, politics, this hatred under the skin, the lack of togetherness, it’s all just too much for me to bare and honestly doc, it’s bumming me out.”

Dr. Applebaum flipped to the front page of Charlie’s medical file folder. He tapped at one of the forms with the tip of his ball-point pen.

“Charlie,” said Dr. Applebaum, “I understand that you’re upset about it all. What really has me concerned is that you’re eight years old and you’re having some, very mature thoughts. Thoughts fairly unexpected for an eight-year-old. Do you see why that might be a point of concern for your parents?”

Charlie folded his arms across his small chest and looked back at Dr. Applebaum. Dr. Applebaum was looking back at Charlie over the rims of his reading glasses. They stared at each other for a long while until Charlie finally spoke.

“I’m a really smart kid,” said Charlie, “I know my parents are worried and maybe it’s their fault for raising such a smart and emotionally aware kid. Maybe it’s all their fault. I mean, I didn’t make this world that is bothering me so much. They did, my grand parents did. Heck Doc, even you made this world and I’m here, struggling with the consequences.”

Dr. Applebaum sat back in his own chair.

“See, these are the things that are un-talk-about-able,” said Charlie, “The fact that I’m just a kid and I’m smart and I’m aware and I read the news but there’s no one, absolutely know one that can relate to me, to talk about any of it. It’s un-talk-about-able.”

“I don’t believe that Charlie,” said Dr. Applebaum, “we can absolutely talk about it. Is that what you’d really like?”

Charlie wanted to leave this small room. Dr. Applebaum could never understand. His parents in the waiting room outside would never understand.

“I’m eight doc. There’s nothing I can do to fix it,” said Charlie. “I’m trapped in this small world, this small body, I hate playing soccer which my dad makes me do; I’m running from bullies at school, being called a nerd, afraid of girls but I really like them, and hoping that someone doesn’t barge into my school and start shooting everybody because they are crazy or depressed or sick on medications. It’s making me really sad doctor. What does that have to do with me? Isn’t that everybody else? Why isn’t anybody doing anything?”

Dr. Applebaum scratched his nose. Charlie saw he had some long gray nose hairs. Charlie wished Dr. Applebaum would trim his nose hairs.

“Charlie, you are an amazing young man,” said Dr. Applebaum, “I’ve have provided years of treatment for some patients that haven’t come close to your level of maturity. You’re right. You’re eight and you have little control over where life takes you. You are at the whims of terror far greater than I ever had to deal with as an eight-year-old. I never had to worry about shootings or terrorism or any of that stuff. Well, maybe the communists, but even that was so far-fetched. But none of it is un-talk-about-able. I hope you and I can talk more about it but unfortunately, that’s our time today.”

Dr. Applebaum stood from his leathery worn chair and reached out to shake Charlie’s hand. Charlie stood up. Politely shook the doctor’s hand.

“Charlie, please send your parents in please and we’ll see you next week,” said Dr. Applebaum.

Charlie nodded and exited Dr. Applebaum’s office into the waiting room. His mother looked up at him with wet, teary eyes and his father barely looked at him at all.

“He wants to see you,” said Charlie.

His parents stood up from their chairs and walked toward Dr. Applebaum’s office and closed the door behind them.

               

Punitive Pumpkin

Brain bashing brutality

bludgeoning the carefully

carved characters on All

Hallows Eve.

Crime scenes of carnage,

pumpkin pulpification

plastered on pavement and

porches.

The pumpkin’s toothy grin

shattered and smashed from

shenanigans of school-aged

smart alecks.

Unsolved these unfathomable

unsavory acts will remain, as

no one mourns the tears of a

smashed and shattered pumpkin.

Witches will keep witching,

Zombies will keep braiiiiiinnnsss…

Werewolves will keep howling,

as the goblins gobble greedily.

Woe to those that wrought

such willful wanton waste,

to the flickering faces of

pumpkin fancy.

Candy wrappers winding a

whimsical trail over walkways

and woodland paths, leading

to a wonderland of fright.

Pumpkins will be avenged,

pumpkins will get you in the end,

pumpkin pie, pumpkin beer, pumpkin

spice latte for $12.99.

The brutal bludgeoning will

be revenged.   

Do Not Be Afraid

                Auqui sat up from his woven mat. He was startled by the noises of the night outside. He heard something and it woke him from his sleep. He looked across the hut toward his sleeping father and cried out to him. His father, Sinchi, stirred as he heard the quiet sobbing of his son. He sat up from his mat and animal skin bed.

                “What is it Auqui? Why are you crying,” asked Sinchi of his young son.

                “I am scared father,” said Auqui, “there are noises outside and I am afraid.”

                Sinchi quietly rose from his mat. He did not wish to wake Auqui’s mother or the rest of the children. Their sleeping, rhythmic breathing filling the small hut. Sinchi moved toward his son, stepping over each child and family member in the dark. He sat next to Auqui on his small sleeping mat. Auqui grabbed his father’s strong arm and held it close. Sinchi felt the light tears of his young son on his arm. He pulled Auqui closer to him.

                “Tell me son, what has you so afraid,” whispered Sinchi.

                “I don’t know. There were noises. Noises in the dark,” said Auqui.

                “There are always noises my son. Noises are normal. This world is a noisy place,” said Sinchi.

                “I’m afraid they will come and get me and take me away,” said Auqui.

                “Who? Who will come and take you away,” asked Sinchi.

               

                Auqui did not know how to answer. He only pulled his father closer to him. Sinchi put his arm around his son’s shoulders and hugged him.

                “No one is coming to take you away my son. There is nothing to be afraid of,” assured Sinchi.

                “How do you know,” asked Auqui.

                Sinchi smiled slightly. He looked out into the dark of the hut. A single flickering ember still twisting in the evening fire.

                “I was once a small boy too. A small boy who was also afraid of the dark and the things I could not see. Your grandfather, he told me that I should not be afraid because there is nothing in the dark but what we put there. The dark would always come, every time the sun set, whether I was afraid or not, so why should I be afraid,” said Sinchi.

                “I don’t understand,” said Auqui.

                Sinchi thought about his own terrifying nights, lost in the thick jungle, hunting, and hearing the Earth move as if it was alive and coming to get him. He tried to remember what his father taught him, the words he used to help him not be afraid. He knew that indeed there were things in the dark that were dangerous but he also knew that being afraid of them was not helpful.

                “My son, you are brave and strong. I know this about you. You possess the blood of very many brave and strong ancestors within you. They will give you strength to conquer your fears in time. I will not lie to you my son, there can be things in the dark that are dangerous, but you do not have to fear them. It is good to know that your senses are strong, but do not let this fear overtake you my son. Because in the dark, while there are terrors, none are as scary as your imagination,” said Sinchi.

                Auqui held his father’s arm tighter and buried his head into Sinchi’s chest.

                “Auqui, let us listen to these sounds together,” said Sinchi. Auqui nodded against his father’s chest.

                “There…do you hear the frogs by the river? They are singing love songs to the moon. They are not afraid to sing. We know it is just the frogs praying and not something to fear. The rustling overhead is mother owl, she is hunting to find food for her family, she is a night hunter and she is not afraid. the chirping of the crickets as they search for love, they do not fear the night. The jungle is full of life my son. Life is all around us doing what it must do, life cannot be afraid of the dark,” said Sinchi.

                “I hear them father. They are not afraid,” asked Auqui.

                “No, my son. They are not afraid. They are not afraid, just as we should not be afraid, because we understand them. We took time to learn about the noises in the night so we are not afraid of them. Tonight my son you are learning that you must listen, even when afraid, so you can learn and grow and understand that the dark is only scary if you let it be. If you know what is out there, have heard their songs, you will understand and not be afraid,” said Sinchi.

                “I think I understand father,” said Auqui, “I should not be afraid of what I do not understand. I should learn what the noises are, hear them, and then I will not be afraid.”

                “That is right my son. It is okay to be afraid. It is normal. Yet remember not to let fear cloud your mind. It is far braver to listen to the night than to cower in the dark,” said Sinchi.

                Auqui hugged his father, “I can go back to sleep now.”

                Sinchi hugged his son, “I know. Sleep well and I will see you in the morning.”

                Sinchi laid Auqui down on his woven mat and brushed the hair off his forehead. Sinchi sat for a moment in the night, listening to the sounds around him. He smiled. He knew his son would no longer be afraid of what he could not see.