Equality attained?

On Tuesday I went down to the beach early in the day to sit and watch my Melbourne friend and his son catch some surf. They were excited.

Now, a couple of days later, Craig and Ben and the rest of their family have continued their journey up the east coast of Tasmania. And me? I am still sitting by the the beach watching wave after wave continue their steady march onto the sands of time.

Today, being the equinox when supposedly all light falls equally everywhere around the globe, I am wondering whether or not a father and son can ever reach any sort of equanimity with each other?

As children, do we ever grow up in the eyes of our parents no matter what our age?

Once, when I was 42 years old and visiting my father, I ordered a coffee at the local cafe we had gone to for breakfast. “What? Are you drinking coffee now?”, he asked in a tone just short of reprimanding, as though I was still the 17 year old athlete preparing for the state swimming championships.

Do we ever forget being the child?

In the following poem Stanley Kunitz has this reflection:

The Portrait

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave mustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

Stanley Kunitz