I lie on the decking by the pond,
a hot English summer’s afternoon.
My brow sweats,
my mind churns with dread.
A persistent feeling the last few hours…
lost, sad, broken.
Theodor is away, on summer travels and adventures with his mummy.
But I think of him, as I often do, my first born.
His fierce intelligence, endlessly inquiring mind, and blue grey eyes.
The last of these seem to embody all of him…
his joy, sadness and courage.
He lives with what most of us do not,
what most of us cannot fathom.
Theodor is a brave, beautiful young man.
I find myself gazing up at a clear, bright blue sky,
with no purpose, no intention.
This is the default position of the depressed mind,
but also of the mind that seeks liberation,
from thought, worry and endless rumination going fucking nowhere.
Other than that, the sky has called my attention by virtue of its beauty,
and in spite of my lingering despair,
sometimes my friend but more often than not my enemy,
I cannot but lose myself as I stare into it and beyond it,
floating into its translucent mystery, wondering what is beyond but infinite emptiness,
the nothingness that plagues us all, since it is at the root of all, of everything,
however much we seek to deny this,
however much the depression screams this.
But then, in this fragile, aimless gaze,
I find myself transfixed by the wispy streaks of cloud,
which are interspersed with small cumulus clusters, out of which Theodor suddenly emerges.
He darts through the smallest of the clusters with the precision of his favourite bird,
a Peregrine falcon,
then comes to a dramatic halt.
Transfixed by this spectacle,
of my eldest son floating in the sky, summoning me as if he were Superman,
I am pulled out of the arse of my head – for is not depression akin, in some respects, to shitting on oneself –
and am unsure what to do.
He has powers I can only dream of beyond flight,
of imagination and wonder,
and I realise I must join him up there, though don’t know how…
for he has something to show me.
Theodor has the grace to come and get me,
swooping down as if targeting his prey,
then sweeping me up in his arms, his Lois Lane,
albeit an older, masculine and far less attractive version,
who also happens to be his father.
He takes me straight back to the cloud, from which he first emerged,
then looks into my eyes,
not quite as his,
possessing no yellow though the same hint of blue.
In them I see a defiance,
that he is becoming his own man in spite of all he faces,
that he will do as he wants now,
that there is an unimaginable strength in him,
greater than any superhero,
which will carry him through, but also carry me through,
and as we soar,
this flight in my son’s arms – for he carries me now – ushers an unexpected joy and love into my heart,
with Theodor whispering into my ear with the true wisdom of a Superhero,
“All will be ok, daddy, all will be ok.”
Theodor, my superhero.
Love Daddy