Thoughts on Sons
My 14-year-old son and I walk into the large diner, late one morning on a Wednesday, and there are plenty of empty booths. It’s the same diner where my parents used to hang out with their friends when they were teenagers, where they’d meet after “cruising the loop” in Lancaster City. The ceiling and the walls are covered in mirrors and chrome and shiny, brass-like surfaces, and the late-morning sun glares through the glass, making the whole place feel like a sleepy disco. The waitresses are efficient and don’t really seem to care that we’re there.
One such waitress takes our order, and after she leaves, I pepper my son with questions. Holding a conversation with a 14-year-old can be like trying to take a reluctant dog on a long walk—they come along willingly at times, and at other times you’re practically dragging them. But it’s good, and I value my time with him. I have seen recently in his oldest two siblings how fast the time goes, and how quickly they are out of the house.
There’s a lull in our conversation, and I watch a couple in their 70s sitting across the aisle from us. He’s delivering a treatise on how cell phones are the Mark of the Beast and it’s just a matter of time. The woman nods along, her eyes vacant as she sips her coffee, takes tiny bites from her omelet. From a television propped up in one of the corners of the diner, news personalities argue with each other about the latest political scandal.
The man checks his cell phone. The woman talks to the waitress. Outside, the fall has arrived in cold, windy bursts, and fluffy clouds make their way west to east. My son finishes his food. I nudge my plate towards him, and he starts in on mine.