June 21, 2009

Marigolds and bee-balm shimmer in the dim dawn light. The MacCauleys are lovelily married, and I did not screw up my little part. At the reception there was a basket full of seed packets which said, “Memories of Our Wedding.” I planted mine today. The seeds were either invisible or very few, but who knows what will arise?

Fathers’ Day. A year ago my father had one day left to live. I sat down to ponder the question of whether he was a good father, but I realize that the only reason to consider that now is to find a justification for my own shadows, or, if I make the other determination, to make myself miserable over the sin of ingratitude. By his own lights he did his best, and it may be well to pray that we are all at last judged by our own lights, by what we could see of ourselves, and what we did with that. I was certainly no better a son than he was a father.