I think about Miles all the time. All the time. Sometimes I think about Miles as a baby or a young boy. We had such fun together.
When I think of Miles as a boy and our walks and activities around the house together, it occurs to me that my nostalgia is no different than any other parent who has seen their children grow up. I also miss Owen as a little boy. We had fun too and I miss his childhood years as well. We as parents are all sad about the past when our sons and daughters were young. I am no different than any other father in that respect.
I am years away from being a grandparent and maybe I never will be. One thing I lament is that I will never see Miles reflected in his children. I will never get to look into the eyes of Miles’s children and see him as a little boy. I will never help him take care of his own son or daughter in those early days when a baby wears you out. I will never remark about how similar he or she is to the little boy I romped with through the streets of Morgantown or over the trails of Mason Dixon Park. The thread is cut. The end has happened and I can only pretend it is true in my torturous imagination.