On my iPhone, I stare at a small photo that was taken two days ago. It shows three kids. One is four years old, the other two years old, and the third two days old. The new baby, Luke, Jane’s latest grandson, is being held by the oldest brother, Mikey. The two-year-old Andrew is seated at the baby’s head and finds his finger in the automatic and determined grip of the newborn. The entire scene is wondrous to behold.
It would be exaggerating to say that the two older boys know what to do. But from the viewer’s perspective, which is of the adult picture taker standing over the scene and looking down, it is clear that they know how to be. They are instinctively careful. This is a living being, and it is currently fragile. The two older boys may beat the crap out of their toys, but clearly this is no toy. And both are staring at the tiny being with the closed eyes, their own wide open. They are quietly awe-stricken. Perhaps reverential. Even the two-year-old, who can barely form full sentences, seems to know more or less what is happening. This is his brother. He was once this size himself. And from this he became who he is and eventually will become the size of the brother next to him. The march of time and of generations. The two boys sense it. And what of the third? Even he may be picking up a strange sense of brotherliness.
Jane was not present the moment the photo was taken. She had been with the older boys all day, but when their father and mother arrived home from the hospital with Luke, Jane made a point of leaving. She was aware that this was a family moment. It was a moment for mother and father and boys.
Hearing Jane’s account of this struck a sad, human note. I am sure she was right. And imagining myself in the same situation, I would have done the same thing. And felt the same poignancy. Despite the fact that Jane has put enormous time and energy into babysitting and the extended-family experience of the older grandsons, it is not her family. It must be very important for a parent to know when to let go, to back off. And in so doing, to admit that you may love people, an entire family, but not be part of it. Any more than an older person can be part of anything younger. This small moment is full of mortality. How much we must let go of things. How much we need to belong. How much we need to separate from the very life we have spawned. Watching an entire generation move away like a boat from a dock. How it all needs to keep moving and separating.
Which brings me to James Bond. Yes, that one. Shaken-not-stirred martinis. And Bond, James Bond. Whom I met, it must be acknowledged, almost 60 years ago. I was in Inglewood California, sitting in a strange movie theater where the front rows slanted up, not down. Doctor No was on the screen. Sean Connery was sneaking around some island. And I was in the company of another family, that of my old friend Joe. And although they were a remarkably dysfunctional lot, we were there together. So the movie-going must have been a pleasantly shared experience, in retrospect.
Who would have guessed that James Bond would be stumbling around almost a quarter into the next century? And who would have guessed that the latest 007 iteration would provide such utterly delightful escapism? Or that I would be rolling around in a wheelchair? And so on.
What is the connection? Between Albert Broccoli’s movie franchise and the three little boys exploring each other’s existence in Redwood City, California? An amazing sense of life. That it exists. That I exist. That it continues. I continue. And the planet may continue, despite Republicans. What is there to do but wonder, give thanks, and let all hearts be glad for another day?