Father Hunger, Father Love

There we were, munching on dinner, legs swinging from the tall chairs in Chick-fil-A. Just me and my favorite four-year-old in the whole wide world.

Let’s chit-chat, Nonnie, he said, raking his chicken tender through the sauce.

Sure thing, I said. What is your favorite food?

Ice cream, of course, he said matter-of-factly, reaching for a steaming waffle fry and popping it into his mouth.

Me too, I said.

Then why are you eating salad?

Because salad is delicious.

He smiled. Well, I think chicken tenders are delicious!

I exaggerated chewing with my mouth firmly closed, which prompted him to do the same.

Well done! You are the most polite! I said, and he glowed.

A father and son sat at an adjacent table, appearing disconnected. The boy, maybe eight years old, fine-boned and pale, seemed pitifully swallowed by the mustard-plaid shirt that engulfed his scrawny frame.

He did not eat but poked his food.

Eat, said the dad, pointing at his son’s chicken tenders, while scarfing his sandwich, chewing with his mouth wide open.

The boy hung his head.

Eat, boy, the father repeated, voice low as the flat of his palm thumped the table.

So they ate and did not chit-chat.

After a minute, the boy said something softly, and the man’s jaw tightened.

He stood, pushed back his chair, gripped his son’s small bicep, and propelled him to the restroom.

It is the silent anger that roars.

I studied my grandson, handsome and strong and happy, forever ravenous, swinging his chunky legs, those enormous brown eyes twinkling. A little boy who tells everyone that his daddy is his best friend. A thought that fluttered and blanketed my heart.

Non, he said, using his preferred nickname for me, can we get ice cream tomorrow?

Of course, I said.

He nodded his head in a manner that looked so much like his daddy and uncles that it took my breath away.

I felt the whoosh of time behind me, before me, pulling me back and thrusting me onward. That is the gift and ache of grandparenting, yes? The recognition that hourglass sands wait for no one.

We collected our trash and pushed in our chairs and zipped up our jackets, as my small companion told me an important joke before slipping his hand into mine.

We passed the table of the boy who had returned from the restroom, a child so diligently ignored. His father ate in silence, brooding, his thick back curled indulgently over his phone.

You will never get this time back, I longed to say.

I smiled at the boy who did not return the gesture but stared ravenously at my hand holding fast to my grandson.

It hurt so much that I turned away.

The next day, following our ice cream outing, and shortly before I went home, I sat on our son and daughter-in-law’s front porch, keeping rhythm in the rocker as our grandson cruised the length of the porch on his scooter. I cheered and clapped and timed him as he attempted to beat his record. As he paused to repair his scooter with a large stick–as little boys are wont to do–a car pulled into the driveway across the street.

A girl and her mother–or so I presume–slipped out of the car. The girl, ten, maybe eleven, slung a heavy purple backpack across her diminutive frame, and the heft of it nearly leveled her. It was not hard to see that beneath the oversized sweater, she was bone thin. Something about her appearance: the way her head drooped, or perhaps her shaggy haircut, reminded me of the boy at Chick-fil-A.

The girl’s mother did not wait for her daughter but flipped through the stack of mail and clomped inside, closing the door with a lift of her heel before the girl even had time to reach the porch.

I kept rocking, and now that my grandson had successfully repaired his scooter, we started our timing game once again. Back and forth, back and forth, he cruised as I rocked, clocked his time, and cheered.

Way to go! I celebrated as he beat his record. I lifted my hands and whistled, and the imaginary crowd went wild.

And then a minivan pulled into the girl’s driveway.

A short, roundish fellow emerged, circled the front of his vehicle, opened the van’s rear sliding door, and waited. After a moment, the girl tiptoed timidly from the house and waved a small, apologetic hello.

Hi Dad! she said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Her father smiled and waited, stretching his arms wide.

Seeing his arms open, she ran to him, and he enveloped her tiny frame and held her close, warmly, tenderly, like a good father, not too tight.

A moment so genuine, so lovely, that I could not help but look away.

After a long embrace, he kissed the top of her head, patted her shoulder, and escorted her to the back seat. The minivan was her chariot, I tell you. He waited patiently as she buckled up, and then closed the door with a flourish, returned to the driver’s seat, and exited the driveway. Her upturned face peered at me from her window as they passed, her small, anxious face transformed, now a sunbeam, radiant with the glow of her father’s love.