K.J. Stevens's Blog, page 27

glue

JJuly 27th, 2012

8:43 pm

Your God-daughter catches her first Perch. Your Mom and sister-in-law can't get along.  You rarely see your brothers. Much of your family has a notion that you think you're better than you are. And all you want to do is sit them down, talk. Get back to the center. Strengthen bonds through words and human touch. Because you see these little cracks and fissures along the lines of the lives you love, but there's nothing you can do to catch up, make peace, keep everyone together because you--like them--are too busy with your own and nobody listens to you anymore anyway. 

 

If they ever listened at all. 

 

You have something to offer. You can open them up and pour them out with the best of them. Just ask Lunde, Holt, and J.C. But because people don't want to hear, you don't talk much. And because people don't read, the words you wrench from your guts are useless. You have five published unknown books to prove this. And so, you hope the old saying--TIME HEALS ALL-- is true. And that eventually, everyone will wake to the day to recognize that we are all in this together. Heading to the great alone. With time running out. And the best  we can do is admit our mistakes, forgive ourselves and each other, and just move on so that we make good, solid, stand-up actions that last for generations to come. 

 

But you know damn well that people cannot. 

 

Admit mistakes. 

Give up control. 

Truly want good for others. 

Just accept. And love. 

 

Because most people aren't strong enough for that. Don't have the endurance. And cannot see the moments that will last.  

Like tonight. 

 

My God-daughter catching a fish. 

My daughter holding my hand on our walk around Sportsman's Island. 

My son on my lap for five minutes hugging me.  

And my wife, my glue, somehow believing in me, knowing I'm true, and keeping me together. So that I can live out this writer's life. The one that has me believing I can help. That I can make a difference. That I can do much more.  

~ K.J. 

 

little engine

little engine

Got the rain. The train blaring through town. A family waking upstairs. And I am content to stay here today. In the basement. At the old desk. With bad lighting. Dehumidifier hum-whirring. And write.

But the older I get, the more I realize that life isn’t about wanting things you cannot have. It is about living in the moment. Making the best of the minutes. And because I have time before we must be on our way, pushing headlong into another day, I thought it best to come here. Shake loose the cobwebs. Let synapses spark. Reconnect. And put the fire into my belly again. Because there is nobody else keeping watch and accountable for this—our little engine—like I am.  

Fuel was getting low.

Desire aimed in the wrong direction.

And when a man gets empty and focuses so much on what he does not have, he consumes.

Greasy food. Too much drink. Nights without sleep.

And he enters the dangerous area of running himself too hard for too long. And what nobody realizes is that this is exactly what he’s supposed to do. That it’s taken 39 years for him to figure out how to keep balance. Maintain the right direction. And from hearing and listening and seeing and observing—paying attention—so far in his short life, he knows that it is much more than making choices. Much more than following rules. And a hell of a lot more than living according to what others believe. It is intangible. But as real as the keys beneath my fingers. And it is what drives me.

Every day, we have our chance at greatness.

Leaving notes for your wife and kids in the morning. Tired. Fed up. Running late. But stopping, at least for a few seconds, to write them as they sleep so they know when they wake—again—that you love them. Appreciate them. Are proud of them.

Picking up pieces of trash on your walk to work. Giving people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the gum wrapper blew out of a car. The beer bottle fell out of a garbage can. The cigarette butt simply got away.

Opening and holding doors for people. Even though they are not smiling, have forgotten words like please and thank you.

Not bitching like everyone else waiting in line at Wal-Mart, even though you know you’re going to be disappointed with the experience you’re about to have with the cashier that hasn’t yet had her break, is tired, and that you, somehow, with your $176.00 bill is putting out. Causing great inconvenience.  

Every day, we have our chance at greatness.

And sometimes it is when we stop.

When I’ve said too much too early in the morning. When I still need breakfast. To wash up. To stretch and breathe as the rain eases to sprinkles. The train is long gone. And my family brings life to this old house. With warm footsteps on the floorboards. Laughter bouncing off walls.

And I know that I will not stay here for long.  

Because I have moments waiting. Just upstairs. And now, with the cobwebs cleared away, the brain firing on all cylinders, and a fire in my belly again, it is time to start my watch over this—our little engine.

~ K.J.

Copyright © 2012 by K.J. Stevens

many dimensions of love

from K.J. Stevens' upcoming book, CUTTING TEETH

many dimensions of love

 

   I want to write about a time in my Saint Paul days. When I was not yet 30. Thought I had the world by the balls. When I was sure that I’d be somebody. That I could do or say anything because for me, the rules did not apply. I want to slip into that booth. Hold that 32 ounce mug of Leinenkugel Honey Weiss. Hear Lunde and J.C., the music, the conversation. I want to smell the smoke. Taste the air and know all I knew then.

   Which was nothing. But nothing meant everything and emptiness made me full. And when you set out to creatively deconstruct your life from ground to sky and back again, nothing and the hollow space it creates can be the most valuable thing you’ll ever find.

   But that’s me. Or it used it be. And that was my Code. Tear it all down. Past the walls and studs. Past the foundation. Through the septic, below the drain field, and deep to where it begins. In the dark, most basic elements. Good and evil and the many dimensions of love.     

   It was in one of those booths, in one of those bars, that I once told J.C.—a single mother of a four year old boy—that a person could never have success in life if they chose parenting over passion. I was humming with alcohol. Teetering on that edge where everything feels like an epiphany.

   “I don’t want to marry or have kids or do any of that shit we’re supposed to do,” I said.

   J.C. sipped her beer. Lunde chuckled. As usual, they let me continue. Dig myself deeper. Bury myself with my own shovel.

   “People that marry and get sucked into fulfilling the roles of mother and father, hubby and wife—they spend their lives getting dumber and fatter while the world keeps trucking on. We aren’t meant to sit and settle. We are meant for greater things.”

   Lunde leaned back and smiled. As usual, he was along for the ride. Helping me reach great heights by letting me plummet to the bottom.

   J.C. adjusted her shirt, tugged at her shorts. She was growing increasingly uncomfortable.   

   “I think you’re wrong, K.J.,” she said.          

   I waited. Polished off my mug. Held it up as the waitress passed so I could get another. J.C.’s cheeks went pink. She bit her lip as she took off her glasses.    

   “No I’m not wrong, J.C.”    

   “Yes, you are. You make it sound like all anyone should ever do is what they want to do, but that’s not how it works.”

   “You say that because you have a kid,” I said.

   “Of course, that’s why I say that! I love my boy!”

   “And you should, and you’re a great Mom, and that’s all fine and dandy, but what I’m saying is this—people make choices. They pour into their passion or they pour into their family. You are either a hell of a parent or really fucking good at something. You can’t be both.”

   “That’s absurd,” she said. “You’re talking out of your ass.”  

   I laughed. It was good to see J.C. jacked up this way. Twisted up in knots. But I was firm in my stance. I had seen her with her son. I had met him. He was a beautiful kid. Well-behaved. Fun. Respected his Mom. But J.C. would never be a great, successful painter, or writer, or musician. She would not be a great quilter, bowler, or chef. She would never really be great at anything—not to the point it would support her family and maintain balance and harmony.

   “It’s just not possible,” I said.          

   Lunde leaned forward. Tapped his empty mug on the table.

   “Another round,” he said. “And let’s do some shots.”         

   And I’m sure we did. And the conversation moved on. And J.C. and Lunde may have forgotten that night. But I have not. Because now, I’m everything I never expected to be.

   Pushing 40. Married. Two kids. Living a small town life in the place me and my wife were born and raised. It is like a dream. This is not reality. It can’t be. We have it good. We’re doing well. We’re healthy, comfortable, happy.

   There is this—the ache, the itch, the writing—and now I can see that what I had said ten years ago was something, indeed, shot right out of my ass. J.C. was right. And in his casual silence, Lunde was right too. He let me wield that fucking shovel night after night. Again and again. Until I was so buried in my own self-centered bullshit, that there was nothing to do, but dig my way out.

   And I have. It’s taken years. Things are not the same as they were in those Saint Paul days. They can’t be and never will be. And for that, I am glad.

   And as my wife wrangles two screaming and crying kids into the house from playing outside on a chilly October Sunday, I know there are different measures of success. Many dimensions of love. Being a good parent and a solid husband is what helps. Not only here in our little world, but in the whole scheme of things as we push along, fighting the good fight, working to tip the scales so that good wins out over evil. So I keep the faith. Stay strong. And believe. So my wife and my kids know I still have gas in my tank. That I can and will do it all. Build great things. With a hammer and nails. Shovel and sweat. And that these words will last and keep us safe from the empty, hollow space inside.

Lost Generation

May 21, 2012

 

There is the job. Bills. Raising kids. Keeping your wife happy. Home improvement projects. Yard work. Side gigs for extra money. And really, all you want to do is drink wine, sit with the words as they form shape, color, line. And be the best goddamned writer since Hemingway. Ezra Pound. Gertrude Stein. But because you’ve become lazy and less disciplined, you go days, sometimes weeks, without writing anything that has meaning. And when you go so long without doing something you love, you wonder if you will ever be able to do it good enough so that others love it as well. And then, worse yet, you are so wrapped up in your busy, happy life that it takes something unexpected and cold to make you see that you have gotten too far off the path. Too comfortable. Too fat. And that there are dark things waiting. For you. Your friends. Family. Your Dad. And that if you  don’t sack up and just do it, the time for doing will be gone.

 

You find this out on a beautiful Sunday morning as you drive your family down Long Rapids Road. From Alpena to The Ridge. The river shimmers. Birds and butterflies zip and swoop from branches and blossoms to lawns and flower gardens. Your son and daughter sing Itsy Bitsy Spider and You Are My Sunshine. You look at your wife and wish you weren’t driving so you could bury your face in her shock of curls and kiss her neck, and then with the ring of the phone you are shaken to the core.

 

It’s your Mom. She’s crying.

 

“Your Dad’s had a heart attack or a stroke. I’m calling 911.”

 

A lot of things happen after this. All of it just as important and lasting as everything that’s led up to it, but somehow little of it seems to matter. The work. The bills. The home improvement projects. Side gigs for extra money. None of those things matter. You have always known this. Felt it. Fought for it. But now, the beeping of a heart monitor, the clicking of keys, the kids singing, my wife’s kiss thirty minutes ago as I sat down to write this—they are the important things. And you know that though there may be breaks and stops along the way, the path you are on is the right one after all. If it was not, you would not be here. Drinking wine. Sitting with the words as they form shape, color, line. Doing your best to be the best goddamned writer since the Lost Generation of Hemingway. Ezra Pound. Gertrude Stein.

 

~ K.J.

beauty to the world

 

cat's eye by Brooke Stevens - copyright 2012 

April 21, 2012

8:15 pm

 

These days. With the hands round and round. So fast. Clockwise. My head spins as I try—with all my might—to take it all in.

 

To my eyes. Ears. Lungs.

 

Deep into my blood.

 

So that I will not forget.

 

Today.

 

Buying my son his first pair of cleats.

 

Dancing with my daughter while cooking dinner.

 

My wife all day—every day—so talented and beautiful that I know I have no reason, no right, to complain about anything.

 

To want more.

 

But I’m a dumb little boy trapped in a man’s body. And I still want plenty of things. And with time so goddamned fast—the way it’s been for the past four years—I know that wanting things and working hard to get them means nothing.

 

But I want them anyway.

 

If this is IT—the only time we will have—then fuck it, I want everything.

 

New TV. Cottage on the lake. Four wheelers. Expensive wine. And trips to everywhere.

 

As long as we can come back.  

 

Here.

 

To watch my boy play game after game.

 

To hear my daughter laugh.

 

To look into my wife’s paintings and get what it is she holds so gracefully—with practiced strength and patience—inside.

 

Because before I was Hubby and Daddy I had all sorts of things. But when you’ve got nobody to share things with, you just end up hollow and emptier and emptier day after day until time is going so slow you wish it would just stop.

 

And these days are not like that at all. They are fast. The hands do not stop. And even though my head spins as I try—with all my might—to take it all in. I would never go back. Change a single thing. Because everything I wanted, everything I did—right or wrong—got me here.

 

To today.

 

My boy and his first pair of cleats.

 

Me and my daughter dancing in the kitchen.

 

And my wife. Bringing beauty to the world.

 

~ K.J.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

space and quiet

 

monarchs by Brooke Stevens 

copyright 2012

www.mywifemakessigns.com

Saturday

April 14th, 2012 

7:47 am

 

Rain. A rush of drops against the house. Gray threatening to keep the sun away. But birds—dozens of them—singing anyway.

 

Light has come. Another day has arrived.

 

Flowers reach for the hidden sun. Worms wriggle through grass and stretch across concrete.

 

And I wake in the place I wanted us to be three years ago. When we were two years short of our five year plan. Living in the city. On the edge of growing my career, letting roots take hold, when I decided that the most important thing was for my kids to know the good I already knew.

 

Grandparents nearby. Water everywhere. Miles of trees.

 

And enough space and quiet to give a kid the chance to think freely, create from scratch, and grow to appreciate the moments in life that will affect them most profoundly.

 

Like waking on Saturday morning. To the rush of rain against the house. Morning gray threatening to keep the sun away. But birds—dozens of them—singing anyway.

 

~ K.J.

an introduction

an introduction

 

   Not long ago, I proposed this idea—CUTTING TEETH—to a literary agent in ANY CITY, U.S.A.

   “You need to develop a platform,” she said.

   Platform? I thought. I just want to write.

   “You need to choose. Fiction or nonfiction. It cannot be both.”

   Why not? I thought.

   “Book marketing is a tough business,” she said. “If you can’t decide what it is you’re writing then you can’t expect people to want to read it. It’ll not be sitting on bedside tables.”

   My gut reaction was to tell her to go to hell.

   But because I am getting older and more patient—and because she was a friend of a friend—I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut. And so, for a few weeks, I thought about what she said. Considered it. Even produced a draft copy of CUTTING TEETH that included only THE REALITY.

   “What happened to THE FICTION?” S.B. said to me one night.

   We had just settled into the couch. She was reading the draft copy of the book. I was reading The Alpena News. We were drinking wine.

   “I took that literary agent’s advice and removed the short stories,” I said.

   She set the book on her lap. Sipped her Merlot. Turned on the television.

   “That’s bullshit,” she said.   

   I put down the paper. Looked at her.

   “What did you say?”

   “‘Bullshit,’ that’s what I said. You’re going to let some woman you’ve never met, that you don’t even know, tell you how to put together your book?”

   “Honey, she’s a literary agent. She knows about publishing, marketing, selling …”

   S.B. held up her hand. Stopped my words in mid-air.

   “But what does she know about writing?”

   “She knows how to sell it. How to market it,” I said. 

   She moved through channels. Sipped wine.

   “Since when did you care about selling your writing?”

   I folded the paper. Got up and set it in the basket next to the fireplace. Stretched and yawned.

   “I don’t care about selling,” I said. “I just want to write.”

   “Then do it,” she said. “Just do it the way you want to do it. Who cares what some literary agent says?”

   I sat down. Sipped wine. Said nothing else about it. But for days I kept picking up that draft copy and thinking the same thing.

   Why in the hell did I change my path? If I change course now, chances are I still won’t make money. Fuck it, I’m putting the stories back in.

   And so, I did.

   My wife—she knows me. She understands what it is I’m trying to do. She has a grasp on what it is I’m aiming for. And it is something that cannot be categorized, pigeon-holed, made up nice to fit into one section at a book store.

   I’m a year shy of 40 and have been writing for 20 years. If I had given a shit about selling or what agents, publishers—what anybody—thinks about my writing, I would have stopped long ago. Caring so much about what others think is paralyzing. Stifling. The quickest way to not writing worth a damn or not writing at all. And because all I have ever known is that I am meant to be here writing, that is exactly what I do. Little by little. A few paragraphs at a time. Words strung together during moments stolen from the everyday.     

   Until we get here.

   The end.

   Which is, of course, the beginning of another book. One that will not sell. One that will not be widely read. But one that is mine. And one that is yours. Fiction and nonfiction together in one book, but all of them stories just the same. Simple stories. Just the way it should be.

   So thank you Literary Agent in ANY CITY, U.S.A.

   And thank you, S.B.

   This one’s for you.

                                                           

~ K.J. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

big dose of cold

March 3, 2012

9:00 am

 

            Big dose of cold. Snow. But first—in the middle of an up and down of temperature—there was rain. And lightning. Silver-white blasts shocking the heavy, dark sky. And me and S.B. were on the couch. Sipping martinis. Coming down from another day. A series of days that have made up another week in our life in this small town.

            “I haven’t read anything in a while,” she said.

            The lightning flashed. I got up. Put another log on the fire. Wood and hot coals sparked and cracked.

            “Me either,” I said.

            I sat down on the couch. Sipped my drink.      

            “Of yours, I mean. I haven’t read anything of yours.”

            “Oh. I know. I haven’t been blogging. I’ve been saving my one hour a day for real writing. The stories.”

            “What are you working on?”   

            It is the same question I’ve heard many times. From many different people. Mostly, from people that don’t care. But then again, the older I get, the more I realize—it’s not that people don’t care, it’s that they don’t listen. They are filling time. Waiting to say what they want to say. And because of that, I find myself quiet more often than not. And besides, it is a question I don’t like to answer anyway. Talking about my writing, doing readings, sharing my writing before it’s finished—these things are pretentious. And when that initial excitement fades and moments move on, I am left feeling hollow. Ashamed. Writing is a thing that is meant to be shared, but it should be shared and talked about sparingly.

            And so, we were unwinding by the warmth of the fire. Vodka eased in and dissolved work, chores, daily responsibilities. And my wife was radiant on the couch beside me as a storm charged up over Lake Huron two blocks from our door.

            “What are you working on?” she said.

            “It’s a story about …”

            The Dad, the daughter, the sad wife moved around in my head. They were waiting for me. Standing on that front step. In the dark. Moths banging against the porch light. The Dad staring off into the sky at a blinking plane carrying dozens of people with hopes, dreams, scars and battles of their own. The daughter clung to his leg. The sad wife wiped her eyes.

            But I could not tell her this. Because once I started—let them out to walk around so soon, without any end in sight—there was a good chance that I would lose them and never be able to get them back in. It is selfish. Silly, I know. But I have been writing stories for twenty years. I know what does and does not work for me. And even though I love my wife and wanted nothing more than to tell someone, especially sweet S.B., I could not.

            “I can’t say what it’s about, but it’s a story I started when we lived downstate. Probably four years ago. It’s just now coming back to life.”

            “Maybe if you talk about it, it will come quicker and be easier to write,” she said.

            “No, it doesn’t work like that. I want to tell you. For you to know. But if I talk about it, I’ll lose it.”

            She nodded. Smiled. Sipped her martini.

            “Maybe you could write about it,” she said.

            “Maybe,” I said, and sipped mine.

            The fire cracked. Popped. Wind hammered the house with freezing rain. Big thumping snowflakes. The promise of more cold.

            “Nice living near the lake, isn’t it?”     

            “It is,” she said. “But sometimes I wish I lived in the heart of a city.”  

            “We do live in the heart of the city,” I said. 

            “I mean a CITY,” she said. “High rise apartments. People dressed to the nines strutting along with a purpose.”

            “We can do that here,” I said. “But we’ll stick out like sore thumbs.”

            “True,” she said. “We do have purpose. We just need nicer clothes.”

            We sat in silence. Listening to March come in like a lion. The fire fighting the cold. And for our children who we hoped would stay in their rooms, despite the rattling of old windows and screaming wind, and that they would sleep soundly with good dreams through this big dose of cold. 

on top of the world

January 23, 2012

8:04 am

 

When it’s gone on too long like this—not working on anything new—it gets harder to start. To put words on the page so that there is more than black. More than white. And it gets too easy to wake at night. So instead of waking my wife. Waking the kids. Instead of disturbing anyone. I sit up and stretch. Walk the hallway. To the front door. To look outside. At stars. The factory chugging dark clouds into the dark sky.  The amber streetlights. And I can hear the hum. The nighttime hum of a city that always sleeps. And it makes me think of my kids and if being here in this place with them is really the right thing to do. A big fish in a little pond is easier to see. To follow. To catch, gut, and eat. And so, maybe my philosophy about the good of roots and family and water and woods was for me, not them. And maybe I just haven’t learned how to live selflessly. But it’s hard to tell at 3:30 in the morning who it is I’m living for. So, just to make sure, I stop outside their bedroom doors and listen. And most nights I go in. To cover Little Man with his Spider-Man blanket and to whisper to him that he’s nothing but the best—a good boy with the heart of an old soul.  To gently lift and turn Oogie so that her body is near the wall and away from the open edge of the bed. And I touch her little hands and smile. And then I walk to our bedroom. To see if S.B. is up. If she’s heard me walking, pacing, checking on the kids—if she’s heard my thinking that always feels so loud—but she never does and I’m happy that she sleeps. That she feels comfortable, peaceful, at ease. And that she can go deep enough so that dreams hold her and keep her, at least for a little while.

 

I dreamed last night for a little bit. The U.K. version of the book had been published. Me and S.B. were in London. Meeting literary types. Creative types. Seeing the city. The countryside. The kids were safe in the States with grandparents. And for the first time since our honeymoon, we had a chance to know what it might have been like had we met and dated years ago. A writer, an artist, and nothing to do, but create, share, and explore. It wasn’t a long dream. Maybe a few scenes, but I remember the feeling. That free, balls-to-the-wall feeling that we were doing well, doing what we loved, and that we were on top of the world. Just a man and a woman in love and in a city far away from home.

 

But it was only a dream. And I would have never thought of London if Pilgrim’s Bay hadn’t taken me here—the closest I’ll ever be to there—unless, of course, we make the trip later this year to promote the book. And most likely the reason I cannot sleep is because I have not started anything new. And all I want to do is write. Not only for me. But for them. Because the thing I know best is the thing that makes me the best and if I can give to them a life that cannot be forgotten—more than black, more than white, a life of colorful words—I will die, one day, a happy man.

 

But dying is far off. And, for the most part, I am a happy man. Just tired. And sometimes, because the things I have to do take me so far away from words, I am lonely. But it’s those walks to the window, to bedroom doors, at 3:30 in the morning that keep me balanced. Solid. And wanting more. Of this city that always sleeps. My kids tucked away in dreams. And my sweet S.B. Us together. An artist. A writer. Doing well. Doing what we love. Just a man and a woman. On top of the world.

 

~ K.J.  

 

cusp of a new year

January 5, 2012

7:45 pm

 

New Year’s Day. The party we are at ends early for us. The kids are being kids. First quiet in unfamiliar territory. Then happy and laughing. Some snacks. A light meal. A couple hours pass and they wind up and wind up and then all at once come crashing down. It is a rush, but not a frenzied one, to leave.

 

We are used to this. It happens. It’s the holidays. The shake up in the schedule. The change in diet. It is not their fault. It is not our fault. It is the way it goes when you have little kids. So, you chase them down. Wrestle them into coats. Wrangle them into boots. Shove hats onto heads. Push hands into mittens. Give hugs. Say quick good-byes. And finally, you are out the door. Carrying them to the car through sleet and snow. The wet cold finding the back of your neck, your fingers, your nose. And after you buckle them in and you and your wife are in the car, you sit—for just a moment—and breathe.

 

“Love you, honey,” I say to S.B.

 

“Love you too,” she says. “Sorry we left before the game was over.”

 

The kids scream. Cry. Bellow about not wanting and wanting to go home.

 

“It’s okay. I think it’s on the radio.”

 

S.B. scans SPORTS and lands perfectly on the game. The Lions are driving down the field. There is a chance that they will finally beat Green Bay.

 

The kids scream. Wail. Bellow some more.

 

I crank up the defrost. Put the SUV into drive and begin up the long, winding, icy driveway. Little Man, our oldest, the five-year-old, is especially loud. He is pounding his fists and kicking the seat.

 

“If you don’t knock it off, I’m going to stop the car, get out, and come back there.”

 

All this, and we have not even made it out of the drive.

 

He screams. Pounds. Kicks.

 

I stop the car. Open my door. Feel the cold rush of January. And walk around to the back of the car. When I open the door, he stops. I put my hand on his shoulder. Look him in the eye.

 

“Are we done here?”

 

He smiles.

 

“Yes, I’m sorry!”

I slam the door. Walk back to my door and get in.

 

The Lions are still driving. Pushing their way to the goal line.

 

S.B. pats my hand.

 

“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t yell like that. I just wanna get home.”

 

“Drive careful,” she says, as I ease up to Nicholson Hill Road and turn left toward US 23.

 

“It was a good party,” I say.

 

She smiles, “It was. I enjoyed myself.”

 

“And you guys had fun, right?”

 

“YEA!” they shout. Already, they are heading back up to a high.  

 

“Who likes parties?” I shout.

 

“MEEEEEE!” we all yell.

 

That’s how it goes with kids. With marriage. With family. Ups. Downs. Crazy uneven stretches between. But it is good. And it is something that makes you better. At listening. At exercising patience. At recognizing that what you have is better than anything you thought could be.

 

And then, you come to the intersection.

 

Wet roads. Cars whizzing North. South. And there is a little black-and-white dog. A Shih Tzu. And it is at the other side of the road. Wagging its tail in the rain, the sleet, and looking at you.

 

“Stay there,” I say.

 

“Oh no, that little dog shouldn’t be out in this.”

 

“No,” I say. “We’ll stop and check for tags.”

 

There is a slight break in traffic.

 

“What is it, Daddy?” Little Man asks.

 

“A dog, buddy.”

 

“Why? What is he doing?”

 

I wait too long. The dog takes a couple steps. Crosses the solid white line of the shoulder and is on the edge of the road.

 

“Aw shit,” I say.

 

“What? What is he doing!” Little Man shouts.

 

“Not now,” S.B. says to him. “Not now!”

 

There is a black pickup truck coming from the North. A gray SUV and a red van coming from the South.

 

The dog takes a few more steps. Wags its tail. Is looking right at us.

 

“I should have crossed,” I say.

 

The truck rushes by. The dog runs. The gray SUV brakes and brakes and misses. But the red van does not. The dog is hit. S.B. shudders and moans. The kids cry. And the dog flips and bumps along the bottom of the van and comes to rest in the road. I cross the intersection then park far enough away so that S.B. and the kids see as little as possible. The gray SUV has stopped a little ways down the road. The red van has kept going, nearly half a mile away, until it hesitates and finally stops on the side of the road.

 

I get out and run to the dog.

 

When I get there, it is clear that there’s nothing that can be done. I kneel. The world disappears. And it is just me and this little dog on the middle of US 23 on the cusp of a new year. The sleet has given way to big wet flakes. The cold eases into my hands. My legs. And the dog moves its one good eye to lock onto both of mine. I reach out. Touch her. And she wags her tail. Three times. I know in my gut what will happen if I lift her up. But there is nothing else I can do. My wife and kids are waiting. The gray SUV is watching. And the red van has made a U-turn and is coming back around.

 

And so, I pick her up. Cradle her in my arms. And there is the small gurgling sound as her light goes out. And I walk. Away from my family. Away from the road. Through the wet, the snow, and the cold. And even though she has no tags, I know she belongs to someone and I must get her home.