A Rather Lovely Day
“Mary stood blinking, her eyebrows pleading. Father opened his mouth and left it hanging there because not a single word would come out. Then the girl took his fingers in hers and said, imploring, ‘I need you to take me for a walk!’
He looked at his desk heaped with things to do. He thought of his falling-down house clamouring at him with other things to do.
He sighed, knowing that he had been defeated by a conspiracy of sunlight and youth. She gripped his fingers tightly, and then they went outside to encounter the great river of being, though neither father nor daughter would spoil the day by calling it that.
And a little child shall lead them, he recalled, the words surfacing from somewhere in the Scriptures. The little girl led the man down to the end of the lane and they turned onto the road.
As I said, the girl was of an age to go walking with her father. A walk is a kind of art form. But a father setting out on such a walk for the first time in a long time could not immediately remember this. His motors were still racing, though he had slowed his body with an enormous effort of the will in order to match her pace. She was interested in everything: coloured pebbles (you can fill a pocket), the smell of an aromatic cottonwood bud unfurling (crush the leaves and smear the wine-coloured gum across your face), watch a bug whirl and twirl insanely (Why does it do that? Why? Why?). Everything is new when you see it again with someone. This child who had come from his body and that of his wife was not old enough yet to understand her origins. It was unnecessary. It was only enough to see the miraculous world step by step, to wonder at the incredible richness and variety heaped upon each other. When had he stopped seeing it; when had he stopped looking? Father’s adrenalin slowed, as did his heart, and his thoughts, and the twitching in his muscles. It was a rather lovely day, he noticed...”
~Michael O’Brien
He looked at his desk heaped with things to do. He thought of his falling-down house clamouring at him with other things to do.
He sighed, knowing that he had been defeated by a conspiracy of sunlight and youth. She gripped his fingers tightly, and then they went outside to encounter the great river of being, though neither father nor daughter would spoil the day by calling it that.
And a little child shall lead them, he recalled, the words surfacing from somewhere in the Scriptures. The little girl led the man down to the end of the lane and they turned onto the road.
As I said, the girl was of an age to go walking with her father. A walk is a kind of art form. But a father setting out on such a walk for the first time in a long time could not immediately remember this. His motors were still racing, though he had slowed his body with an enormous effort of the will in order to match her pace. She was interested in everything: coloured pebbles (you can fill a pocket), the smell of an aromatic cottonwood bud unfurling (crush the leaves and smear the wine-coloured gum across your face), watch a bug whirl and twirl insanely (Why does it do that? Why? Why?). Everything is new when you see it again with someone. This child who had come from his body and that of his wife was not old enough yet to understand her origins. It was unnecessary. It was only enough to see the miraculous world step by step, to wonder at the incredible richness and variety heaped upon each other. When had he stopped seeing it; when had he stopped looking? Father’s adrenalin slowed, as did his heart, and his thoughts, and the twitching in his muscles. It was a rather lovely day, he noticed...”
~Michael O’Brien
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