Echoes

Like an echo, faintly, we hear each other through the generations. It isn't immortality; it's a distillation. The first man migrating. And to that beginning something original, something new, a true inheritance in the new generation. A smile, a frump, a way. And then joy at that ephemeral utterance, satisfaction, gratitude; that we are not lost here, that we continue. Praise to God, we exist.

wg2 repeats what dg4 says on a 2 second delay. "Get the bad guy," dg4 says. One beat. Two beats. "Get the bad guy." They play in proximity, but separately when it happens. (I rather prefer it when they play together, which they do often. They do it without fighting less often.) Wg2 watches dg4, emmulates behavior, learns.

dg4 uses the word suck. ugghh. I use the word suck regularly. It's a lazy, undisciplined speech. I never thought it sounded ugly, but when that 4 year old says it I cringe at the vulgarity and the innocence. Juxtaposed.

I'm very often told how much I look like my Dad. I don't believe it, I don't see it. I think others mistake an inflection, a motion, some similar affect for looks. Nevertheless, I consider it praise.

My father has an easy way and yet he's firm. He makes decisions and moves on. He loves his mother, he cares for her during her rehab. Many hours, many days.
Dad horses around like his uncle Abe. Ah, there it is. Echo