If I traveled into my future, this is what I’d like to see…

The sun is picking itself up somewhere on the eastern horizon, far across America and the Atlantic, stretching its golden huey fingers all over the Great Plains, and at this early minute in the morning just dripping down over the Rockies and over the big Western Sky. A man, a boy really, 26 years old, stirs out from under a patchwork quilt made by an old and good friend as his alarm rings a humming sound to push him into the new day. The fog of early morning pulls at his eyelids as he lights a match to the stove and begins to boil a pot of water. His knees bump against a cupboard full of granola and fruit, and as he mixes these in a bowl with liquid silky milk a three foot tall ball of grumbling and barely awake happiness rolls into the room, a little boy coming to join his father for breakfast. They sit at the table and barely speak, the hour and waning darkness too still to be broken with human sound.

Soon they find themselves dressed and stepping out through the front door of their complex, instantly thrust into the flittering warmth of an Oregon Autumn morning. Halloween will be here in less than a week, and today the leaves from the mountains around the city have all blown in for their daily commute, a reminder that we’ve got precious little time to enjoy these morning walks before the roads and windshields of passing cars are covered in ice and steamy breath. The father walks fast, his son, holding his hand, practically runs to keep up with him. It’s two blocks to the preschool, and by the time they hit the first street the little boy is asking to be picked up. He’s heavy and his dad is no particularly strong man, but he lifts him up and hauls him the rest of the way, through that peculiar scent of Autumn as it massages up through your nose and lungs, whispering all of the magickal secrets it’s found over the centuries into any soul willing to listen. The boy walks into daycare after a hug and a kiss and his father smiles a bit before ducking into the coffee shop next door for tea and a few words in his sketch book. Twenty minutes later, the sun is singing 8 o’clock and an empty mug ringed with slightly spilt tea remains where once sat a poet, the father returned to his home and now steadily making his way uphill on his peddle bike, sewing his path through buses and cars, free from the weighty restraints of stoplight and yield sign, being pushed Westerly by the heat of the sun on his back until coming to rest in the space he comes to reside for most of his day, managing a website for a small public radio station. He toils and smiles his day away until finally his bike tires find less resistance on the downhill ride back to the preschool to pick up the boy again and fade into the steamy afternoon chill that is only too sweet to describe, like the juicy excess of orange dripping down your chin after your first fresh pick of the summer.

The two boys tuck into a small diner/caf� for dinner, dad with a glass of wine and a slice of fish and his son chewing macaroni and cheese all over his face and shirt. The waitress walks up to smile at the little boy and chat with him, his responses are short and his head tucks down into his shirt. She sits down by the father and points out how cute his son is, as is the daily routine, and they all laugh and talk about the Seahawks or the latest film or how wonderful it is to have such a big blue sky sweating its heat through the window.

Outside the sun thinks twice before setting, but makes a certain honest promise to come back as quickly as possible if only they can share the next day in a similar way. The Children of the Sun everywhere agree, but tomorrow is Saturday, so they quietly bide their evening in the ways they do best, smoking or reading or staring at the moon through the bottom of a bottle, plotting how to best impress that great beaming star in the morning.

Up Next: baby dog