March Again

My son is twelve, and he only wants to talk about Star Wars. I don’t mean he likes it. I mean it’s the only thing. Every car ride. Every dinner. I asked “Hey, tacos tonight? What do you think? He said, “Did you know Ahsoka Tano was originally supposed to die in Season 5?” That’s what we’re working…

I’ve been reading this play. It’s about two guys standing by a road, waiting for someone named Godot. They don’t know when he’s coming. They don’t know what he looks like. They wait the entire play. He never shows up. For reasons I couldn’t explain at the time, it made more sense than anything I’d …

We were talking about AI. Careers. Whether any of it would still matter in five years. The usual loop. Then he told me about his family. And everything we’d been talking about just disappeared. Mary Oliver asked: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Most of us …

He’s almost eye level now. Twelve years old. When I hug him, I’m not bending down anymore. I remember when every decision felt like it would break something. The school. The food. The screen time. All of it, life or death. Twelve years in, the weight is different. This one’s about where it goes. T…