Sometimes it takes lunch with a hundred kindergarteners.
Smiles. Laughter. The chatter.
To bring you back around to where you’re supposed to be.
Just a boy on a ball of dirt
and lava and rock and water and hope and fear and love,
rotating on an axis that clearly does not exist
but can be seen on maps and in books and
can certainly be felt on a wintry February night
somewhere near the 45th parallel in the place,
not far from the lake,
that you have decided to anchor your roots and stay.
Kids shoot straight.
They make you remember
innocence is not lost—it is only forgotten—and
it can be regained when we choose to love unconditionally.
It was the 12:20 lunch.
The visit to my daughter’s school
where she giggled with friends
and I looked across the table at my wife as she listened
to a sweet, roly-poly boy talk about
his dad and his dog and his love for string cheese,
and it was that good solid minute
when I looked around the gymnasium
at all the children of different shapes and sizes and colors and dreams and
I believed they were mine.