When my first born was in gestation I turned to names. We always do it. Look for names for our children.
Being curious I looked up my own name. Raymond. Turned out, it means protector. I liked that. It was very noble.
I was about to become a father and I was the protector embodied.
Fast forward 18 years and as I sat on the tailgate of a fireman’s truck, my son dead on the side of the road I realized I’d failed.
I was no longer the protector, my second born was dead. How could I face his mother knowing that I had failed my sacred duty to protect?
I cried bitter tears and cried out to an unhearing, uncaring, negligent god. Then climbed into the passenger seat, was driven home to tell his mother, my bride that I’d failed her. Our son was dead. I think that I will carry her screams to my end. I can never forgive myself.
Fast forward to today, I’m sitting in a hotel room with my youngest son, quietly talking on the eve of his beloved older brothers birthday. I take comfort in the fact that I’ve not failed since.
Happy Birthday Carrick.
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013, written entirely on my iPhone.