On Sunday afternoon, Jay, Wally, Leo, Caroline, and I gathered at my dad’s house to watch the Patriots play the Broncos in the AFC Championship game. Jay and I have followed the season closely, rooting for New England, and just before kickoff I looked at him, sitting on the couch, and noticed his arms were shaking.
“Are you cold?” I asked him.
“No, nervous,” he said in a faint voice without taking his eyes off the television screen.
Prior to that, I’d known Jay was into the game, but I wouldn’t have guessed quite that much. I know he cares a lot about sports and can have a hard time watching critical moments in a game, but that degree of expectation struck me as something I would have thought you’d need to be a little older to feel.
Such is the way I’ve seem a number of seemingly adult dispositions grow in Jay- with a clarity, a trueness to form, that startles me when they emerge.
I’ve heard other parents speak this way about their own children. Over the weekend, a father told me that a few mornings earlier, he’d been walking his second-grader son to school, when his son had stopped to note how beautiful the sunrise was. Jay and I were out in the neighborhood at the same time and I’d noticed it, too- a sunrise unlike any we’d had for months. The dad said he’d never heard his son remark on natural beauty like that- and because he had, the dad knew his son was ready to appreciate a long-intended camping trip on the coast of Maine.
With Jay, I find that sometimes my ideas about who he is make it hard for me to see who he’s become. The other afternoon, he, Wally, and I were sitting on my bed. Wally, as has been his inclination lately, was peppering me with questions about death: Will I be able to see even if my eyes are open when I’m dead? Will I need to breathe when I’m dead? Will I die before you do? As he went on, Jay reached over and pinched his brother’s foot. I snapped at Jay, annoyed that he’d decided to annoy his brother at a moment like that. Then I craned my head so that I could see his face, which was pointed away from me. It was contorted, on the verge of tears. “I don’t like when he talks like that,” Jay said.
And then last night, it happened again. It was before bedtime and I was reading “Amos and Boris” to Jay and Wally. It’s my favorite of the several great William Steig books, a story about a mouse and a whale who become unlikely friends. Halfway through, Jay said he didn’t want me to read the last page. I said I was going to, because I knew Wally would want to hear it, but I offered that when the time came, Jay could go to his bed and put his head under his pillows. Which is what he did, and with Jay across the room, I read to Wally:
He looked back at Amos on the elephant’s head. Tears were rolling down the great whale’s cheeks. The tiny mouse had tears in his eyes, too. ‘Goodbye, dear friend,’ squeaked Amos. ‘Goodbye, dear friend,’ rumbled Boris, and he disappeared in the waves. They knew they might never meet again. They knew they would never forget each other.
Afterward, when Jay had come out from beneath his pillows and had gone to sleep, I read the passage again. At 6, Jay has had only early experiences with friendship and he knows even less about forever. Yet in an instinctive way, as if it’s baked in alongside the capacity to walk and talk, he seems to understand the stakes in which he’s invested, just by being alive.