Caedmon Comma

My son,

I'm a pretty good guy in a crisis. For me, everything clicks in life's moribund moments. It all seems right in the catastrophic. I think this is because I was trained for the tragic. The tragic, however, has abandoned me.

My childhood was defined by crises - as are many. No complaints. I was raised by the good-hearted doing the best they could. Yet, now, I am older and my life has run dry of crises. Our family tranquilly plods toward goodness and peace.  What is a tragic man to do?

Your mother is teaching me to love, and the family that we have built is picturesque in its beautiful momentum . And you, my boy, are a theophany if there ever was one.

I wish I could show you how proud I am of you - how happy you make me. But, I am ill prepared for this vacuous glory.

Tonight, I sat and pondered the southern moon. It was bright, unobstructed, and real. The silence of the night was everywhere, and sacred.

I thought of you as I stood and looked to the north. My shadow was long and animated.  The shadow showed a man, a father, who could exist in the light.


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