A Journey’s End

I am old now. The end is near, but I have no fear. My life has been long and complete. I have fond memories and a family to carry on my name. Which, just in case it’s important to you, is Michael Alba. And now that I have your attention, and with your permission, I wish to tell you my story. It is an ordinary tale. Important only to me and my family. But maybe you have some time to kill and have nothing better to do.

In my earliest memory, I was blind. Not the pitch-black blindness of the star-nosed mole, I could easily distinguish night from day, but what my eyes sensed then gave me little information about my circumstances. But I did have excellent hearing. I always knew exactly where my mother was - sitting close to me. I could hear her fuss as she talked to herself.

I didn’t have a lot of room. And I liked to keep my head close to my chest. I was well fed. And warm. It was very comforting. Of course, being so very young, I had yet to realize how harsh and unforgiving a place the world could be. That knowledge would come in time.

One day, I was tapping on the wall, something I had started doing recently. I liked doing it. I even felt compelled to do it. Although, I wasn’t sure why I was doing it. Then disaster struck, the wall broke, cool air rushed in. I suppose I should have felt guilty. But all I experienced was exhilaration and curiosity. I kept on tapping. The hole got bigger. I couldn’t see much. It was as if my eyelids had been glued down. And then my mom said hello. And I had a little rest as I was tired from my exertions.

When I woke, I found dinner was ready. It was delicious. Although I couldn’t say what it was, as I had never had it before. I asked my mom where dad was. She said he was busy working. Perhaps he will be back in a little while if he could spare the time. Over the next few days, I saw my father once in a nonce. Not a lot - he was a hard worker. And he spent a lot of time on the road. I’m not exactly sure what it was that he did. But my mother said he was a good provider. And that seemed to be a good thing, so I was satisfied.

I had two older brothers and an older sister. I was the baby of the family and the smallest. So if I wanted my fair share, I had to be aggressive. But that’s how it was in my family. We were used to the rough and tumble. And while there was jawing and some argy-bargy, we were a tightly knit lot.

It was a halcyon time, without the cares and responsibilities of adulthood. I spent all my time at home, stretching, caterwauling, and irritating my siblings. My eyesight improved. I saw an infinite variety of colors and shapes. Some objects glinted. Others lay matte and dusty. All illuminated by light that poured in through a sizable door on the first floor, which opened onto a courtyard.

We all grew bigger and stronger. The roughhousing became more boisterous. It was a happy routine.

Then my oldest brother Tito disappeared for a spell. He soon returned and shared stories of all manner of plants and animals he had seen. His absences became longer. One day he did not return. My sister, Janet, and my other brother, Joe, were soon gone too. I missed them. If my mother was sad to see them go, she didn’t show it. She had always been inscrutable. And my father seemed not to care at all.

Then the wanderlust hit me. The time had come for me to also strike out on my own. I was apprehensive, but an atavistic instinct drove me. My need to see the world overwhelmed me. I left.

At first, I felt alone and wobbly. But I suppose all young people setting out to make their mark on the world feel a combination of fear and exuberance. At first, everything was incomprehensible. But after a while, I fell into a routine. I ate when I was hungry and slept when I was tired. I was not an early riser. Indeed not, I stayed up late. All night sometimes.

I was content with my own company. I had a few friends. But I didn’t socialize a lot. Until one day I saw a girl, a young woman really, who I found extraordinarily attractive. I could not describe my feelings for her. I had never felt the like before. I did my best to come to her attention. Sadly, if she had any interest in me, she hid it. She was at once both demure and radiant. Intelligent eyes rested in a round face. A tilt to her head reinforced her standoffishness. While her body, although well covered, hinted at sensual curves

I was at an impasse. On the one hand, I wanted to talk to her. But on the other hand, I was scared I would make a fool of myself. But as the great hockey philosopher Wayne Gretzky once said, when asked his secret to goals, “I don't know, except that I never scored a goal on a shot I didn’t take.” So I took my shot. And it worked out better than I had hoped.

Charlotte, as was her name, did not reject my advances out of hand. I won’t say that for her it was love at first sight. But neither was she icy. I took hope where I could find it. And I did what any young male in my circumstance should do. I bought her gifts. And I took her out to eat as often as I could. Romance blossomed. And we decided to share our lives.

As a new couple, we discussed a future full of possibilities. We agreed on having children. And for that, we needed to find a home big enough for both of us and our young ones. In the early days, we lived apart. I stayed in my bachelor digs, while my intended had a small place of her own. With our union, we moved into a place suitable for raising a family. My wife decorated while I when to work. And soon, we had four young ones of our own. I continued to work every day while Charlotte was a stay-at-home mom.

I was nervous about fatherhood. I had received no instruction in the art and science of parenthood. But Charlotte assured me that parenting was instinct. And we would know what to do. Her serene confidence calmed me. And she was right. We took to our responsibilities like fish to water.

Our children were our world. Wee helpless creatures, adorably dependent on us for everything. There is a joy in fatherhood that is hard to describe. It is elation, tempered by hard work. You love your offspring with unbounded emotion, while simultaneously wondering when these little noisy, demanding, soft, round bundles would go to sleep.

Too soon, it was over. When you are young, a week is measured in years. But as you age, the years fly by as weeks once did. Soon our children had left.

Now I am old, a father to scores of children. And grandfather to more than I know. I have never seen them. That’s how God has designed it. Elephants live in herds. Dogs in packs. And starlings in multigenerational undulating swarms. But we barn owls live solitary lives.