Ceiling

I had my ex-stepkids over tonight because I love them and I miss them a lot, and we don’t get time together on the reg. School is out this week anyway. Sleeping quarters become creative in these times: my daughter on the pull-out couch, her brother in my son’s bed, my 6 year-old in mine. I was forced to retire early due to circumstances, while I normally write my film or watch one til I nearly fall asleep right where I am.

I laid in bed for some time, my son breathing heavily beside me, something I honestly missed from when he was younger, and I stared at the blank ceiling; until suddenly I recalled something similar to this from long ago.

I remembered when I was a boy, not much older than my son, when I couldn’t sleep. We didn’t have mobile phones or even television in every room. We had a small black & white in the family room my grandfather gave to us. There were 4 or 5 channels. We didn’t have VHS yet either. When I couldn’t sleep I’d stay up looking at the ceiling playing out the stories of Robin Hood or the heroes of old whose tales I knew somewhat from those who’d told me. And I’d insert myself in them, dreaming of the day when I’d grow from being just a boy to be a real hero like them.

And suddenly I felt a great shiver travel through me, as if I could feel the younger version of myself look at me through time, and all those decades were divided only by the ceiling, and the boy I was was looking at me from then. And all the stories of the heroes faded back into the corners of his room til all he saw was me. And I wondered how I measured up.