The moment is broken as your 12 year old son enters the room, jumps on the bed, and proceeds to question why anyone would be laying in a semi-dark room, doing absolutely nothing. It's impossible to explain to this particular poster child for ADHD, so you ask him to lay quietly if he chooses to stay. He stays - quietly. For awhile. Then the silence is broken with "What is your legacy?"
This happened to me 15 years ago. I can still feel the moment as if it just happened. I still feel the warm breeze, the numbness of the end of the day, the quiet, and then - the sheer panic at hearing his question. I opened my eyes and looked at him. There he lay, waiting for an answer. Calmly, quietly, this child had absolutely blown away my solitude and replaced it with utter and complete anxiety. Finally, I naïvely volunteered, "You and your sister are my legacy." I was content with that answer.
He quickly responded with, "That's not a legacy. That's not good enough. You can do better." With that, he sat up and left the room. My bet is - he did not give it another moment's thought.
There I laid - alone again. Left to ponder the error of my ways. I can honestly say that moment is always with me. I still try to answer that question with an answer of substance. One that would satisfy that 12 year old. 15 years later and I still try. That's okay though, because I still try. Maybe I have created my legacy, maybe it is still waiting for me to catch up. Or wouldn't it be a kick in the pants, if over the coming years, he has the opportunity to discover for himself that part of his legacy is his next generation? Time will tell.
So, this year, as I continue to carry the legacy question with me, I have turned to Uncle Walt to help me in my quest. He says it so eloquently:
O Me! O Life!
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
by Walt Whitman
What will be my verse?
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