THE SLOW DEATH...

The master wandered around the plaza. For him, every day was the same. He never celebrated his birthday. Sometimes he had to think twice to remember the exact day. Since he was anti-materialistic by nature and not by calling, he wasn't fond of gift giving. But he wasn't a party-pooper either. Other people's happiness filled him with happiness also.

It was the holiday season. The faces of the children emanated excitement. People greeted each other warmly, but there was a subtle preoccupation in the countenances of the adults. Maybe it was the memories of more innocent times. He had rested his weary bones on a bench when the man known to his townfolk as the writer joined him. He wrote a column in the daily with which most the community began their day. His political commentary often decided elections and issues.

But he also had a creative side. He liked to mix reality with fiction to create the scenario and characters he needed in order to communicate his message. He liked to speculates about a side of humanity that most people preferred to ignore or keep hidden. The master loved the writer for his abject honesty. After sharing embraces and exchanging seasonal greetings the writer began his tale. The master listened. He much preferred listening to talking. Nothing bored him more than his own voice. 

"Why don't you kiss me anymore, son?" asked my father with a resigned sadness in his face.

"Dad!" I stammered. "Dad!"

Didn't he understand? I was 15. I was too old to be kissing my father. He looked at me with his sympathetic demeanor. I didn't have to explain. He understood. He always understood. He was a man of great patience and discipline.

As I passed through adolescence into adulthood, I never forgot to kiss him on the cheek and hug him if we had been separated for any period of time. What I would give to kiss and hug him now, but he departed for parts unknown seven years ago.

I have three sons and a step-son. I coached soccer for many years as you know. Most people don't know that I began my career covering sports. I know something about boys. A Jewish friend of mine with all the knowledge of the patriarchs has four sons.

"They are beautiful when they are children, but then they grow up," he told me with a wistfulness in his voice.

My youngest is 15. He, like my other sons, has been affectionate with me. Since he is my baby, he occupies a special place in my heart. For the record, all my sons occupy a special place in my heart. My mother had eight children, but she had the gift of making each feel like an only child. I inherited that talent from her.

"Where is my beautiful boy?" I would call when I went to collect him at school. He would come bounding to me as children do when they see the parents they love. Rather than hooking up with the buddies--who chided me for being too old to be raising a child--for chess in the afternoons, I would spend my afternoons teaching him everything from kicking a ball to riding a bike. It was pure joy.

I have never been able to satisfy my desire for him because from the knowledge gained experiencing the passing of time via my older sons, I literally visualize the sand pouring like a huge waterfall through an hour glass. Next year I will be 70. Soon I will be dead. Time is an incomprehensible phenomenon for me.

Meanwhile, he is going through puberty and I'm paying the price for his passage. He doesn't want to hang with me as he once did. He stays in his room when he isn't in the streets with his friends. When I ask him a question, he answers in a gruff syllable or two. He pushes me away when I try to hug him. The tenderness has vanished.

There are photos of him throughout the house that capture the innocence I worshipped. Regrettably, that little boy is gone, gone forever. We have moments at the stadium watching a game when he will return to his former self and sling his arm around my shoulder, but those intimate exchanges are few and far between.

This Christmas I will have all four boys. There will be one day that we will spend together at a favorite establishment. We will eat well and drink well and our spirits will be high. They appreciate their old man. For all the bad that I have done in my life--not enough to spend eternity in hell, I hope--I will go to my grave with the satisfaction that I have been a good father.

But I can't escape my melancholic nostalgia. Since I don't believe in Santa Claus anymore, I can't count on ol' St. Nick bringing back my baby. When you live a long life, you die a slow death.