And as a father, how do I see myself? I see myself as someone understood and forgiven by his children, who are bright flowers in a strange and beautiful world. I am their child now, and they are the guiding ones. They are windows, rainbows, and I am a passing cloud. There’s a game in the street. Every kid in the neighborhood’s involved. I look up from my notes. I ponder my hands. How could anything as common and ordinary seem so profound? I go out, only to find myself in a dusty valley long ago, walking beside a man who seems to know why I am there, and why he is there, and why his orderly vineyard rows are there, and why the sky is above them. He carries a shovel on his shoulder. It’s hard to match his pace. I fall behind. Or is it ahead? Or is it simply grace?