The Most Beautiful World in the World
It's June and I'm putting on my Dad's binoculars for the first time. He
died in February, his unluckiest month, also the month I was born. I feel
the hundred thousand times he lifted them to see what some flickering
wings in a tree were, what was in that pond or floating out at sea.
One time, we were in Ohio, or Canada, I don't remember, but they are both
mostly flat as I recall and home to birds. He and my older brother were
out birding. I stayed at the picnic table by the tent. I didn't know what
bird shit looked like. I put my finger in it and the stink never went
away. The same day I got a terrible sunburn from falling asleep in the sun
with no one watching me.
When I was a little boy, sometimes I wished I could fly. I imagined that
if I thought hard enough, I could will myself off the porch of my
grandparents' farm house in West Virginia and fly wherever I wanted to go,
not that I knew what was out there. Now, standing on my roof in
Minneapolis, decades later, I wish I would've figured that trick out.
Maybe if I had flown across the horizon, landed by some reeds in a pond,
he would have lifted his binoculars, the ones around my neck right now and
yelled: "That's my son! I see my son!"
snow in June –
in a million