About a year ago I was sitting with two of my young nephews,
aged three and five, watching TV after dinner.
Well, I was sitting anyway. They
were crawling up and down and around and through with the normal incessant
energy of small boys.
The large chair I was sitting on, and myself, of course, made
up the jungle gym that the boys were using to expel some of that youthful
energy. The oldest had fallen (I may have
playfully pushed him) from my knee and the younger one was high-centered on the chair’s
headrest above me when a TV spot came on advertising a hair restoration clinic.
Pictures of prematurely balding men with depressed faces
filed across
“You kinda have that.” He said as he turned to look up at me.
I felt a tiny finger poke my bald spot followed by a small three-year-old
voice from above my head.
“Yeah, wight therw.”
Dad-gum kids. Dad-gum painfully honest kids.
At a wake for my hairline where the rootbeer flowed freely
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| "To the fallen!" |
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