I was running in the District earlier this month with a friend of mine from where I used to work before I was forced to retire involuntarily and I remarked to her that the first two months of any year were the worst for me in terms of mood because of the proximity to the just-past holiday season and the fact that the birthdays of my three estranged sons come in rapid succession during these two months. Below is me dining at noon at a local restaurant on my middle child's birthday near where we used to live before all the divorce business was secretly launched by their mother.
It was, as I explained to my running partner, as if my ex-wife loaded my three young children for a drive to her parents' house 400 miles away for spring break while I remained behind to work and she drove around the corner and crashed horribly and all three children died, for the amount I've seen my children since then. They live on in my memory although not in my present or presence; here's how I remember my middle child, the most sober and earnest one of the three, someone who you couldn't put one over on, except for the dastardly manipulative influence of his egocentric mother and her coterie of child-devouring "professionals" during the lengthy divorce proceedings all those years ago.
I dined as usual with the Empty Chair a little while later in the month on MLK Day at the same restaurant, as is my custom on their birthdays and any holiday. The conversation was lacking, the hope remained present as ever and the fare was delicious as is usually the case.
Ah, memories. I'm glad January is behind me; here's a portrait of that month's birthday boy during happier times, before the paid-gun reprehensible adults in the domestic law arena swooped in upon the kids to brainwash them at the behest of their mother and tear the family asunder permanently, as is their wont and their life work, proud work of adults overbearing the wills of mere children.
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