SOUTHPAW

My son is a one-dimensional sort of guy. He’s not working on many levels, not a lot of complexity. He’s an electrical engineer with a bunch of degrees and licenses, and everything is black and white to him, there are no shades of grey in his universe.

He doesn’t feel the need to pull back the curtain, to ever question why not. To him, one plus one will always equal two, anything else is an absurdity. There are times when I envy him for that. I’ve spent a lifetime searching for answers to the unanswerable, to mysteries, and to explanations for the unexplainable.

My wife has accused me of trying to read the mind of God, but even though my thought experiments have fallen flat, leaving me with more questions than answers, they have opened the doors of my consciousness to wonder, to art, and to the power of the human spirit.

I have a theory as to why my son differs so much from me, and it sounds laughable, and inane, and completely devoid of empirical evidence, but take a listen before you turn the page.

As a preschooler, my son would amuse me with stories about his imaginary friends, their mischief and shortcomings. It was at that same age that he showed equal dexterity with both hands, to the point where he could swing a bat or throw a ball equally well, right or left handed.

But that all changed when he entered kindergarten. He came home with a strand of yarn tied to his right wrist. It’s a right hander’s world I was told, no green handled scissors in this kid’s future, he’s sure to fit in now.

And that’s when his imaginary friends went away. He no longer amazed me with fantastical stories of their exploits, no more tales of his mind reading abilities, or the dinosaurs he would battle or the robots he would someday build. Those friends and stories went away, never to return.

That said, time marches on, and now my son has a daughter, and she’s a southpaw, and she loves to draw and write. Her hair color changes weekly, anything from fluorescent green to fire engine red, and she dresses any way the mood strikes her, and she’s written a play, and tonight the family will gather, including my son, and we’ll do a table read, directed by her, the bohemian who will sit at the head of the dining room table.

My son is a good father and I’m sure he’ll be a good sport this evening, but I sense he’ll be more interested in the snacks than the play and he won’t understand why I’ve asked everyone to wear a strand of yarn around their left wrist, and when he asks I will say, “Figure it out for yourself.” But he never will.