I have no children.

I used to have children, but now I have no children. Virginia said over the long distance phone from New York, New York, that she missed reading about the children in my writings. After some thought, I responded, "Sorry Virginia, but I no longer have children."

I saw a picture the other day of the children that I used to have. They were together in the parish hall at St. Paul’s on the Hill watching a play. David, aged four, with legs solemnly crossed, calming gazing at the scene before him. And Benjamin, aged six, on his knees, excitement evident in his face, ready to lunge from observer to participant in the unfolding drama.

These children have been replaced by two young men somewhat the same as the children they were, but different. David, age seventeen, now surrounded by friends male and female. The young men exchanging the epithets of young bull bonding, and the young women almost indulgent in their affection for Dave who would hurt no one unless he had to. A Benjamin warrior of nineteen, who lets no slight or injustice pass without throwing his will into the battle. My wife says as he trots out to center field, "My God, is that our son? Is he that big?"

Yes, he is, and so is his brother. I can no longer write about them as my children. I now grant them the privacy I grant adults. They are no longer cute. They are men, and becoming complicated.

My sister Jeanne said once that whenever Ruth, my mother, referred to "the children," Jeanne would think she must be referring to us, John, Mary, and Jeanne. But she was not, she was referring to Ben and Dave.

I find that I now tell more and more stories about a child, not about Ben and Dave, but about myself as a child, and my parents and my grandparents, and my uncles and aunts. Dave said to me one day on the way to a high school event, "Why are you repeating all those stories from when you were a kid? Don’t you realize that I have heard them before?"

I told him that I tell these stories because in another ten or twenty years, I will be dead and I want him to tell his children about their grandfather and his parents and their parents because it is important to me that they know us. He accepted that but I think there is more to it .

He and Ben are no longer the children. It is I that am the child.

Enya, singing the song "Evacuee," sighs, "Each time on my leaving home / I run back to my mother’s arms, / one last hold and then it’s over."

Is it then that as I approach the end of a business career and the beginning of the end of my life I feel what I have not felt for years, the desire to be held again in my mother’s arms? Do you know that that is what they most often cry as they die on the battlefield? One word: "Mother."

Is it that after all is said and done, I am still but a child. A child now who has learned not to cry, but a child still. A child who has learned a profession, and learned to suffer victory and defeat, who has earned money and helped others, and has some reputation, which leaves him in moments of dark, but a child masquerading as grown-up.

Are these my father’s shoes I am wearing?

Our family, Ruth, Mary, Jeanne and I, had a hearty laugh one day when my father referred to me as "Dad." Now I feel more secure because Benjamin will reassure me that all will be well, much as my mother once did. And if my bike blows a tire, David can come and get me just as my dad would have years ago.

I have no explanation for this. Except perhaps that as I grow older I become all too aware of how thin is my shell and how soft my armor. Could I one last time slip into my mother’s arms, before it is over?

The author of this essay is John Cowan. He has written two books of similar essays: Small Decencies and The Common Table Each is approximately 160 pages in paperback. To purchase either book by mail send a check for $10 per book to him at 1498 Goodrich, St. Paul, MN 55105. Price will be negotiated for any order over 20 books. If you wish to discuss consulting or speaking engagements or attendance at a workshop he may be reached by e-mail. His address is Johnedie@aol.com

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