clavus

You change his diaper again. You’ve done it countless times before. You will do it again. And again. You lovingly stroke his chest and look into those deep brown eyes. You wonder what he thinks. He’s not saying. Despite the distasteful aspect of changing diapers, it harbors a few precious moments between parent and child – one person giving care, the other receiving it. It is a natural act of love. It imposes a moment of order on a world which seems to make less sense every day.

You think of Iraq and gaze down at your son. There is little chance that he will have to face the dangers of that foreign land. But still, you worry. WMD’s that didn’t exist. People who were supposed to greet us with flowers but chose roadside bombs instead. A failure in intelligence. Somewhere there is a “Mission Accomplished” sign that was hung up a little too early. It’s sadly unnerving to think of all that when you look down at your precious son. What is in his future?

More diaper changes. That’s in his future. You will change his diaper and tend to his needs as long as you are able. And when your bad back, your arthritis, or a thousand other potential maladies make it impossible for you to minister to his needs, you will find someone else to do so. Your son will be cared for.

He is changed. You look at him again and feel overwhelmed. There are no words strong enough describe the way a parent loves a child. There are no words terrible enough to describe how a parent feels when the child is injured. You gently touch the scars where the left side of his face was. Your finger traces the cruel path of the bullets, from cheek to neck. Your son was lucky – saved by the finest battlefield medical technology known to man.

His kevlar and combat boots are a distant memory. He is changed.

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Ass, gas or grass. Nobody rides for free.