To Karl
A boy at summer camp, Santa Cruz in August.
A man on retreat, Santa Cruz in August.
Fifty years apart, yet parallel in time.
Both were spent in silence, quietly alone.
The boy did not fit in, the man did not need to.
The boy became a father, and pushed his son away.
He had long ago forgotten, the anger and the shame.
When he saw what he had done, he tried to hold his son.
But the son told the father, expressing all his hurt:
“The day that I was born, was the worst one of your life.”
The man expressed denial, but that was how he felt.
Then one day in a quiet hall, surrounded by the woods,
Sitting in the morning, reflecting on the breath,
There rose a wave of sorrow, the man became the boy.
And the tears of yesterday, began to fall today.
The boy had left that summer, hiding in his grief.
Now the man could leave, riding on his joy.
For sitting there in silence, breathing in and out,
He had found the real meaning, what he really felt:
“The day that you were born, was the best one in my life.”