Paul’s mouth is covered with chocolate icing, from a giant gingerbread man. His brother, in a high chair, is laughing at him. In the hallway, he looks like Elton John, in white, circular plastic glasses. He is holding a silver cup with a plastic red handle and a plastic green lid and a green straw. He is wearing a brown shirt and brown-and-white striped pants. His hands are curling against his thigh.
He tries to put a pacifier in his brother’s mouth. His brother’s neck is on his knee. Both of them look like they could fall off the bed at any minute. The two boys on the patio, each sitting on one of Sue’s knees. Both boys in tank tops. Paul seems to be squirming. He must think he is too big a boy for this sort of thing.
Another snapshot: Maine, late afternoon. The boys are tan. Both are in pajamas. On the table in front of us is a green squirt gun. Scrabble. A slide projector. A book. Paul rests his head on my knee. His face is maturing, offering a sense of what he will look like later on. A vision of the boy, the teenager, the man.
In the afternoon, we eat lunch near the beach, on a red picnic bench. I thought I had forever. The boys are both holding bottles of cola with both hands. Paul is wearing red Converse sneakers and blue shorts and a yellow shirt with green numbers that read “51.” His brother imitates everything he does. At night, before they go to sleep, they dress up in crazy costumes. They both have blue Tishman hard hats on. They both have necklaces on. For some reason, Paul is wearing a black winter glove on his right hand.
He is in a yellow bathing suit, standing in the water. The tide comes in.
He’s smiling. Beyond him are what? Boats? Lobster trawlers? What?
At his grandmother’s surprise party, he is twelve or thirteen. His hair is huge and curly. He is wearing a yellow polo shirt and a blue blazer. There are two buttons on the sleeve. A brown belt. His hand is on his grandmother’s shoulder in this photo. A nice smile. In the picture with the whole family, the entirety of us, he is again standing next to his grandmother, his hand on her shoulder. Protective? Covetous of her love? In the buffet line, he holds up his plate of food. In the photo of the five of us—with Sue, Jimmy, little Kathryn, and me—Paul is the only one sitting down. He’s next to the cake. His sister is looking at it like she can’t believe it. My hand is on his shoulder. His smile is quiet. In the last photo, his cousins, my brother’s kids, are messing with him. His hands are at his thighs, a little bit curled. A child with this hair cannot be anything but sweet.
His bar mitzvah announcement reads: “Paul Eric Greenberg, son of Sanford D. Greenberg and Susan R. Greenberg, is a seventh grade honor student at St. Albans School in Washington, D.C. He is quarterback for the seventh grade football team and is also a member of the basketball and baseball teams. He is an avid reader and cartoonist and enjoys music.”
At the ceremony, it is as if the ark holding the Torah is golden, but not just golden: illuminated. He seems small and thin before it. I wrap his tallis around him. They all watch. His mother and I take a photograph afterward. He smiles. His hands are folded.
Another photo with the entire family: Paul stands next to me. He smells like a young man—fresh, clean, a familiar cologne. I don’t know what his mornings are like in his dorm room—if he wakes up early before class, has a cup of coffee, looks over his books, or perhaps just reads a novel. Or if he rolls out of bed, throws on a pair of jeans, and walks across the same quad I walked across when I was his age, still sleepy.
We parents place such heavy burdens on our firstborn. We freight them with sacred family names, wrap them in our own impossible dreams, expect them to lead their brothers and sisters when they are still children themselves. Paul, you have been up to the challenge in every way. When I nuzzled you on that changing table not long after you and your mother came home from the hospital, you melted my heart. You still do. And not you alone.
To pack Jimmy’s stuff and send it off to college via moving truck, he must have a 1,000-pound minimum. That is the least, but how to get there?
To begin with, there would be the report cards from his middle school—the letter from his Latin teacher who said he wanted to write an extra recommendation for him because he was such a standout kid. So, two letters of recommendation. Plus the letter he writes me from camp—the summer before he leaves for college. He writes on the envelope: Personal and Confidential. This is meant to keep his mother from reading it, though he knows that someone must read it to his father.
Dear Dad:
I want to bring up a subject with you which is going to change drastically in the next year. I feel that the last 10 years you and I have worked extremely hard to build a solid and compassionate relationship. This has not only kept me going but also saved me during difficult times in high school. I want you to know that just because I am leaving does not mean that I do not want to continue to build.…
Well, now I have to attend to some business. I will let you know that I’ve learned a lesson on
