My uncle is an artist. I use the present tense, even though he has departed this world, because I am unwilling to suggest that he has shed that love as an earthly pastime. Such passions don't become irrelevant, like the bag of bones that carries them. Probably his palette has expanded. For much of his life those paintings were of mountains and gorges, saguaros and deserts. But near the end his eyes turned toward tiny flowers. Their petals were smaller than a raindrop, and he needed magnification just to replicate them on the canvas. 

 

I frankly wondered about his choice. These were vegetation found sprinkled on the trails, that were certainly overlooked by the many hikers who passed by. Yet he felt a pull to slow down and look closely. 

 

This Christmas was the smallest celebration John and I have had in 42 years. Even before our own children were born we joined large tables of friends, abundant with food and conversation. But this year Benjamin and I played a board game much like Scrabble but with numbers. He beat me, or at least he would have if we kept score which neither of us had a mind to. Our enjoyment was from a different revenue stream than victory. The room was quiet, since I was hesitant to put on carols that might push John out of bed before he was ready. 

 

Yet in that scaled back version, there was connection. I was present with Ben in his element, in a way that is harder to hold in a clamoring room of siblings. At some point Ben made an observation, one that was word for word what his grandfather said to me. I felt a tingling, as if my dad was in the room, and more precious still, that he somehow knew Benjamin, and loves him.

 

It was about numbers. 

 

"I have a rhyme for each. One sun. Two shoe, Three tree, four door." Here Ben branched off from my father. Dad always said five, hive. But bees are not among Ben's favorite creatures. 

 

"Five archive, six mix, seven heaven." He took a breath. "Eight gate, nine alpine, ten den." 

 

The interaction was small. Yet in coming closer to how my son thinks, I felt a magnification of tenderness for him. 

 

Later in the day there was a marathon zoom call, lasting four hours and including sixteen people who came and went with the flow of their own celebrations. We nailed a few crossword puzzles. 

 

What a banquet is offered to us, in the simple chance to look deeply one moment, and the next throw our arms wide open.