When his first son, Robin Goodfellow, started to fade, in a fit of grief and weird self blame, Arthur bemoaned having ever gotten a second dog.
“Mudcat’s too hyper, she aged Robin before his time.”
“Mudcat kept him young,” I countered on the quick, and both our hearts caved at the truth and pain.
Nearly eight years later with a three-year-old human child, same.
Every early morning, every evening drained, running on empty day after day, fatherhood pulls my partner’s face.
And the helpless laughter over something wonderful, the same grin and eye glint, provocative perk of the brow, reflected in our child, compass mirror pure light.
Yeah, you’re getting older. Objectively older. Bad eyes and organs older. But for all he runs you ragged, look to our son. He keeps you sharp, silly, sappy, adventurous, hopeful, young.
Happy Father’s Day, Arthur.
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