Caedmon Comma

My Son, you have nowhere to be.

I drive too fast. You may have noticed.

When the cops pull you over and you give them some lame excuse, they always say, 'Well maybe you should've left earlier.' And, of course they are right. But, I speed even if I have plenty of time. I speed when I just take you your sister out on a casual drive.

Why do I drive so fast? Why am I always in a hurry, even if I'm not going anywhere?

I'm starting to realize that I'm  only in a rush when I am not somewhere. I rush when I am between places, even if there is no reason to hurry. I think this silly manic place is a result of an old insecurity:

I want to be somewhere.

When I look in the mirror, I don't want to see some nowhere person, I want to see a man that is somewhere. I prefer to be at my destination than en route. Yet, it seems that I have spent my whole life en route. Life has been full of location changes, job changes, and transitions. All I want is to arrive.

So, I speed, hoping to arrive sooner.

I remember one time when I did not speed. You don't remember it. You were only two days old.

We put your small self in a carseat. We fussed with the buckles and straps and made sure that the blankets were just perfect. Your mom sat in the backseat with you and I climbed behind the driver's seat. I started the car, released the clutch and slowly pulled away. Everything was done carefully. For, I knew that you, the most precious thing in my life, were in the backseat.

We took our sweet time getting back to our house that day. No hurry, no rush. I was cognizant of safety, yes, but I also had a realization. I had nowhere to be. My most pressing destination was tucked into blankets and buckles in the backseat of our slow-moving car.

My son, I hope that you are never driven by destination or insecure about where you are. For, you are the destination.