I Am Sick

Doug Kaufmann
I take pride in finding one of the previously unknown concepts of true wellness. But I’ve got to tell you, when it comes to feeling great, last week I met my match.

I jogged 3.2 miles on Friday, worked out over the weekend and watched what I consumed, hoping to avoid feeding fungal parasites. As hard as I’ve tried, however, I simply cannot overcome the pain that I feel in my heart for the great country of Japan. My body is well, but my mind and my heart are not.

  My eldest and his wife live in the “flats,” 5 blocks from the ocean, in a beautiful beach city in S. California. My youngest is a touring professional guitarist, who recently spent some time in Tokyo, Japan. No, the earthquake and ensuing tsunami didn’t occur in California and this horrific incident didn’t happen when my son was visiting Japan, but there are thousands of proud parents like myself who now can’t stop crying… because it did happen to them. I am sick.

I’ve called and sent text messages to my children more in the past few days than in the entire previous month. I pulled out this old, old clipping that I cut out of an Ann Landers column in a Spokane newspaper the week that my eldest was born in 1982. I’ve read it so many times that I’ve now memorized it. It doesn’t help ease the pain I feel for those in Japan, but it does remind me that I must take advantage of every single minute of every single day here on earth.

To My Grown Up Sons

My hands were busy through the day.
I didn’t have much time to play,
The little games you asked me to,
I didn’t have much time for you.

I’d wash your clothes; I ‘d sew and cook
But when you’d bring your picture book
And ask me, please to share your fun
I’d say, “A little later son”.

I’d tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers, turnout the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door,
I wish I’d stayed a minute more.

For life is short and years rush fast,
A little boy grows up so fast,
No longer is he at our side,
His precious secrets to confide.

The picture books are put away,
There are no longer games to play,
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear,
That all belongs to yesteryear.

My hands once busy, are now still
The days are long and hard to fill,
I wish I might go back and do,
The little things you asked me to…


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