"The City is Beautiful"

I am a person of habit. I need routine; it offers comfort and a sense of stability.

Rarely does my routine get broken; as long as it only happens once in awhile, though, I'm pretty happy with it. Today was one of those days. It's Friday. A coworker is leaving us for another company, and a number of people decided to linger after hours to bid him a fond farewell.

I happened to be among that number; I'm not overly social, but I wanted to wish him luck and watch (or maybe participate in) some of the socializing that spontaneously broke out. Before I knew it, the clock read eight o'clock as I was shuffling out of the office.

I say this to give some context of what happened next. I was reminded of what my young son said the last time he visited the city. The sun had fallen, yet the streets were still well lit by giant animated signs and the glow of offices and store windows as well as the flow of ever-present traffic. The air was awash in the sound of engines passing and footsteps hurriedly clicking by me and the echos of phone conversations from passersby.

It was much like a night when my son was last in the city visiting, when he said to me, "Dad, the city is beautiful."

Being at an age when his opinions tended to be on the fickle side, I said, "I thought you said the city was dirty and yucky."

He replied, "No, it's beautiful."

"But it's so loud and busy and crowded!," I said.

He just looked around at the buildings and twinkling lights, ignoring my reply as my wife started snickering at me. "Here he's loving this place, and you're trying to convince him otherwise," she said.

It is times like this, when I'm headed back to my apartment alone at night when I'm leaving the office later than I intended when I'm reminded of this conversation. I think of my son's sense of wonder, and I see the city through the eyes of a child instead of the filters of cynicism and old age I've slowly become accustomed to.  It's times like this where, for a moment, I revert back to that state of wonder and bewilderment that only a child can possess and I wonder how I managed to get here.

Despite my son's age he managed to remind me of lessons I've forgotten.

Thank you, Little Dude. Daddy loves you.