It's dusk. The sky is cloudy, then clear, then somewhere in between. Yellow light slides among with thick grey clouds, birthing a gorgeous mix of the two. People walk by, on both sides, yet I've tuned them out. Jerry Garcia, noodling and fighting his way through Dylan's Twist of Fate, forms a giant wall between them and my new son. He's with me, too. Asleep. I stop frequently to check for tiny exhales, but he's fine. In fact, he's perfect. And for this brief time, I'm also perfect, because the moment is perfect.
It's not a dream. Just a walk through Astoria, with just me, my guy, and some beautiful music I hope one day he enjoys as much as I do.
In the end, I hoping it's these times that add up to a truly fulfilled life. So I try and have as many as I can. I'll forget them and their specifics. It's the way my memory works. But no worry. It's the accumulation that matters most. The hoarding of these little experiences, until one day, the heart seems a bit fuller than before.
Lord have mercy on the guy who goes through the years as if he had more than one go round.