RAFAEL WALKS

He found the place where desire meets capabilities. Saw my hat on a chair (adjacent to the couch). Was holding onto the couch with one arm, standing, facing my hat. He wanted that hat. That filthy black tooque I got three winters ago. One foot forward then another then another then victory. You could tell he was getting off on walking (squealing and banging his fists when he reached the other side). It’s life. It’s lovely. It means I’ll have to be that much quicker to catch his mistakes unlike this morning when he promptly banged on a wooden 2X4 we keep above our radiator to keep shit on, which catapulted a glass vase across the living room floor. It was like Braveheart except with me in the movie, in one of those enormous football field battles, cleaning up with a broom and dustpan. 

In my swimming pool

The lifeguard watches me swim. He watches me saunter the poolroom wearing flip-flops, trunks, swim cap, and goggles. He smiles. I smile. I wonder what he thinks of my stretching. It’s light and aerobic and I don’t get into heavy positions and don’t spend more than 16 seconds on each leg. I’m hardly even aware he’s watching. To be honest, he might not be watching. He might be on the phone as I’ve sometimes watched him. What phone call is so important? What incoming message is so pressing it needs to be answered by a lifeguard on duty?  I’ve never heard him say the word, “Mom,” so it’s unlikely he’s speaking with her. Which could mean he doesn’t find her important. I once heard him say, “It’s not fair,” rubbing the top of his forehead with his thumb, then look at his thumb to see what he wiped off, then wipe that off on his trunks. Which could mean he sweats when life gets rough. Just the other day he had this hiking magazine open to some tragic story of an expedition into the Grand Canyon that went horribly awry. Why is he reading about unpleasant mishaps instead of surveying the pool for disaster? I’m beginning to believe he has a bleak outlook on life. My lifeguard is a manic depressant. 

Happy Valentines Day

From my son. I also took him to Mexico, Miami, the beach, the movies, the Children’s Museum, Central Park, but the card’s small so it’s ok. I did correct his tenses though; can’t start too early.  Some people are very caught up in making sure their child is the smartest one on the block. I saw a book the other day that read…”Einstein Didn’t Use Flash Cards.” Which is surprising to me because he’s so damn smart. Nonetheless, there is one less, lame-ass thing, I can pass on to my son.  I remember visiting my father in some remote town in South Florida. I was so young I barely remember if he was living in this place or just staying there for the weekend but I was with my older brother and good ol’ dad forced me to go over and over, all these words for a spelling bee. Nine or so stapled pieces of paper. A hundred words on every page. This was how I spent my Saturday or Sunday or whatever day my Dad was allotted to see us. What a waste of time. I would have learned a lot more watching him smoke cigarettes. Which I also did. I learned 

Rafael’s first portrait (in crayon)

He did the line.

My Bubby

Welcome to Miami ladies and gentleman! This is my Bubby. 5″2. Single. Enjoys playing cards, floral t-shirts, and listen up boys… has all her own teeth. She is my only grandma left. This woman has been through some shit. She escaped the holocaust by running away. At eight years old she came home to her house in the south of Poland (presumably from school or getting bread) to find her parents gone, her home vacant. She went from neighbor to neighbor asking if anyone saw her Mother, Father, brothers, sisters. No one said anything. And no one would