Something from a long time ago, of which I was reminded by something I happened to be reading.
My first wife has left our marriage, and I remain with my son. We are living in the bottom floor of my parents' house, also my own boyhood home. I am out of a job and essentially out of money, but for now I consider my job to be the raising of my son. He is 4, perhaps 5 years old. We sleep in two bunkbeds, which are the same bunkbeds my brother and I slept in when we were boys.
We talk for a while, we say our goodnights, and he asks what time it is.
"About nine," I say.
The room grows quiet. I have closed my eyes. I am tired, but there are a lot of things on my mind. I'm building the future in my mind, piece by piece.
"Dad," my son says. "What time is it now?"
"I don't know. Nine-fifteen. Nine-thirty. Something like that."
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think it's 9:15 or 9:30?"
"I don't know. Maybe 9:30."
Silence. Perhaps I will sleep. Building is hard. There are so many parts.
"Dad?"
"What now!"
"I just want to ask."
"Ask what?"
"What time do you think it is now?"
"It's two minutes later than when you last asked!"
"Nine-thirty-two?"
"Go to sleep!"
Silence. There is no clock in the room, no ticking sound. I don't care what time it is. It's night. That's enough. But this seems worrisome now. Why is he asking about the time? Is that normal? I don't know. What do I know about what's normal for a 4 or 5 year old? I don't remember being that age. I can hear my son breathing. Moving now and again on the mattress.
"Dad? .. Dad? … Dad?"
"What! What!"
Silence. I've startled him. I wonder if I've startled my parents, too.
"What, son? What is it?" I say softly.
"Dad. What time is it? I mean … what time do you think it is now?"
"I doesn't matter, son." I actually sit up in bed, as if that will make it easier to talk. "It's night time. It's time to sleep. The numbers don't really matter. They change all night long. But the night itself is always just night, and it means that it's time to sleep."
"Okay," he says. "Okay. But still … what time do you really think it is right now?"
"Oh for God's sake, GO TO SLEEP!"
"Ok Dad. I will. But just once more, Dad. Dad, okay?"
"Okay what?"
"What time do you think it is now?"
I remember feeling frightened back then. At that time, so to speak. Why was he asking every two or three minutes about the time? What can this mean? Have I done something wrong? Do I have any idea how to be a father?
I find myself sitting up in bed, here in Bali, some sixty years later, and I realize that I would give anything to hear that little voice again, just once more, and those curious, unfathomable words.
Dad. What time do you think it is now?
My first wife has left our marriage, and I remain with my son. We are living in the bottom floor of my parents' house, also my own boyhood home. I am out of a job and essentially out of money, but for now I consider my job to be the raising of my son. He is 4, perhaps 5 years old. We sleep in two bunkbeds, which are the same bunkbeds my brother and I slept in when we were boys.
We talk for a while, we say our goodnights, and he asks what time it is.
"About nine," I say.
The room grows quiet. I have closed my eyes. I am tired, but there are a lot of things on my mind. I'm building the future in my mind, piece by piece.
"Dad," my son says. "What time is it now?"
"I don't know. Nine-fifteen. Nine-thirty. Something like that."
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think it's 9:15 or 9:30?"
"I don't know. Maybe 9:30."
Silence. Perhaps I will sleep. Building is hard. There are so many parts.
"Dad?"
"What now!"
"I just want to ask."
"Ask what?"
"What time do you think it is now?"
"It's two minutes later than when you last asked!"
"Nine-thirty-two?"
"Go to sleep!"
Silence. There is no clock in the room, no ticking sound. I don't care what time it is. It's night. That's enough. But this seems worrisome now. Why is he asking about the time? Is that normal? I don't know. What do I know about what's normal for a 4 or 5 year old? I don't remember being that age. I can hear my son breathing. Moving now and again on the mattress.
"Dad? .. Dad? … Dad?"
"What! What!"
Silence. I've startled him. I wonder if I've startled my parents, too.
"What, son? What is it?" I say softly.
"Dad. What time is it? I mean … what time do you think it is now?"
"I doesn't matter, son." I actually sit up in bed, as if that will make it easier to talk. "It's night time. It's time to sleep. The numbers don't really matter. They change all night long. But the night itself is always just night, and it means that it's time to sleep."
"Okay," he says. "Okay. But still … what time do you really think it is right now?"
"Oh for God's sake, GO TO SLEEP!"
"Ok Dad. I will. But just once more, Dad. Dad, okay?"
"Okay what?"
"What time do you think it is now?"
I remember feeling frightened back then. At that time, so to speak. Why was he asking every two or three minutes about the time? What can this mean? Have I done something wrong? Do I have any idea how to be a father?
I find myself sitting up in bed, here in Bali, some sixty years later, and I realize that I would give anything to hear that little voice again, just once more, and those curious, unfathomable words.
Dad. What time do you think it is now?
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