I recently took the, long overdue, time to get back to an old friend. Toward the end of what turned out to be a long letter, my thoughts turned toward my son, Malcolm:
It's fascinating to speculate about what he sees, what he doesn't see, what he fears, and what he dreams.
He turned one month old on Sunday. Authorities on the subject say that he sees little more than contrasting blobs of color at this point, that his eyes can't yet focus except at very close range. Even then his ability to truly discern objects is suspect.
But I can see so much when I look at him. I see history, mankind’s proudest moments, doleful follies, and great promise. I see the shoulders of giants I've stood on to get to this time and this place, the opportunities I've had, and the opportunities I hope to give to him. I look at him and am grateful for those that came before me and gave those opportunities to me.
I think of these things and more when I look at him; and I wonder if, in the twitch of muscle in his face learning to express emotion, he isn't thinking about that too a little when he smiles.