Ecclesiastes 1:2
3:38 a.m.
A ‘midnight feast’ as she calls it.
We sat at the little table in the dim light,
savoring off-brand Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
plotting to steal fairy snores
so we could finally find sleep.
Core memory for her.
Long Monday for me.
Tomorrow will be another random Monday,
corporate chatter,
deadlines stacked like paper idols,
forgotten in months,
Deleted in years.
It’s only Monday for me.
But it’s her childhood.
And I got to be there. Me.
The moment our children take their first breaths,
we become the ghosts of their memories.
The stories they’ll pass down.
We can be saints.
We can be villains.
Most of us drift between both.
So: choose your cereal wisely.
Repent.
Repair.
Then sit down and play.
Metanoia.
Mentor.
Communion.
3:48 a.m.
And I’m still smiling.
For all my fragile existence,
this is where I’ve been placed,
amid cinnamon-sugar, corn-puff absurdities,
chemical-unnatural-deliciousness,
and the giggles of a five-year-old.
This is what wealth looks like.
Not monetary millions,
but the cosmic lottery.
Out of billions galaxies,
out of all the centuries,
this is where my soul was Willed awake.
God thought of me before time,
before space,
and put me here,
with air conditioning,
Siri,
4K screens,
and Shiner Bock.
And also: 9/11. COVID-19. WW3.
But cinnamon.
And sugar.
This moment doesn’t erase
the yawns of tomorrow,
the 3 p.m. whimper
when joy burns down to dull weight.
But I had that 3 a.m. bowl and giggle.
One bowl of cereal
cannot undo disease or disaster.
It will not cure poverty,
or school shootings,
or grief.
But it was delicious.
And out of all the points on the timeline,
out of all the creatures I could have been,
I was Willed into existence
with a bowl of knock-off Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Magnificent.
It doesn’t erase sorrow.
But it makes it sweet.
A single giggle doesn’t cure the salty wound.
But it makes the wound bearable.
(That’s what Mary Poppins sang to us true.)
On paper it’s only this:
Calories: 130 kcal
Total Fat: 3 g
Carbohydrates: 25 g
Protein: 1 g
But for her,
it is my eulogy.
Her standard.
The spirit of me she’ll carry.
It won’t cure cancer.
(It might even cause it.)
But that cinnamon-sugar milk date
redeems many my flaws and a few failures.
May I never groan the old refrain:
“Life is meaningless.”
Yes, sometimes it stings
more than it delights.
But her milk mustache
is a sacrament of joy.
And the universe smiles back this morning.
It’s 5:00 AM
Goodnight.
Good morning.