Last night as I was tucking Sean into bed, he asked me to tell him a story that had “Papa K” in it. Even though he’s never met you he’s fascinated by stories about you–maybe because he carries your name as his middle name or because he’s always told how much he looks just like you or because he has to wear glasses like you did (he even tried your old ones on).
Like today, we were in a cab and he wanted to know about when you tried to do stand-up comedy and what were some of your jokes.
He also wants more than anything to go fishing — you would have loved doing that with him, I know– and I told him the story of how when I was six we went to a trout stream upstate and you caught nothing, but I came back with 3 huge fish. I dont know who was more pissed, you for being bested by a six-year-old or mom who had to clean and scale them.
But this melted my heart… We were coming home from visiting family and we all got dropped off at the train station. It was pelting rain and blustery. Between the street and the sidewalk there was a huge slushy puddle and my spry eight-year-old little boy hurled himself from one side to the other quite effortlessly. He then saw me standing on the other side of the puddle and reached his hand out to me and pulled me across and as I landed (dry) he put his little arm around me and we ran to shelter. It was adorable and lovely and I swelled with pride that this is my child, and knew you would be proud of him and the young man his is becoming.