Whittling

In a few days it will be 28 years since Bampi died, but he is still in my thoughts most days. There are moments when I feel his presence or the memory of his spirit so keenly ~ and then, the familiar lump, of loss and missing him, travels from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat setting off the waterworks. I had one of those moments recently when my son, after reading The Dangerous Book For Boys, decided that it was time to make a bow and arrow.

With some initial assistance and guidance from my husband, my son and his friend set about to make bows and arrows. It ended up being an all day totally engaging activity. At last count, I believe 6 bows were made and I don't know how many arrows - seemed like lots.

Late in the afternoon, I realized my son and his friend had moved their activity to the porch. There they were ~ sitting side by side on the porch swing, two friends with sticks and little knives in hand, chatting about 'stuff' and whittling the end of their arrow sticks to a point. Looking at this sweet picture was like seeing young boys from a simpler time and simultaneously like two old men hanging out today. I felt my grandfather blow through me and I knew that he must be looking at this picture too and smiling ~ the simplicity and sweetness of the moment was a reminder that these are the points in our lives that we need to whittle down to.