I’ve spent the past couple of weeks after my son’s birthday here in Indiana. We carry on with our routine as we always have. I wake him up. Sort his clothes. Make sure he gets on the bus. In the meantime, I cook him an egg.

The routine went okay this morning. He seemed a bit churlish. I think he had some issues falling asleep last night. But we did the things – he got dressed, I cooked the egg and he got on the bus fine. I do not know if this is the last breakfast I’ll cook him while I’m here. But it leaves me a bit wistful.

As he sat down to eat, it occurred to me that, someday, there will be a last egg. His preferences, like his body will grow and change. What is preferred today will no longer be preferred tomorrow. And then I will no longer be needed to cook the egg anymore. Nor will it be wanted. Another vestige of youth lost to anachronism.

That’s fine really. I don’t recall my last breakfast with my late grandfather. I just remember what a joy it was to have had them. And I think that’s the point of memory and of time. Not that I do the egg, but that I love him and showed up. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, through some miracle of memory, when he’s older he’ll remember that Dad came to Indiana sometimes and cooked the egg. I hope he remembers then how much I love him.

I will leave here on Sunday. Duty calls back home and points west. But a piece of my heart always stays here with him – as it should.

But man, I hope that last egg doesn’t come too soon.