Chris and I bonded within days after he was born. In many homes, the new father becomes the odd man out when mom brings home the new baby; in our house, it was my wife who suffered. I couldn't get enough of him. I played with him, fed him, changed him, took him everywhere with me. I insisted on staying overnight in the hospital with him when, at age one, he had to have surgery for his double hernia. I read a story to him every night before bed. When he was five he decided it was his turn; he read an entire book to me one night, and I was so proud I almost burst.

Eileen and I separated when Chris was six. The next few years were tough for all of us. He came to live with me for good when he was twelve, and we picked up right where we'd left off. I had remarried by then, but in the end that didn't last either. I was crushed when my second marriage broke up, but Chris stuck with me and helped me keep my sanity. He needed a father, which kept me from going off the deep end. I needed someone who looked up to me and cared for me unconditionally, so we had the perfect symbiotic relationship.

Of course, there were some problems and conflicts as he went through his teens. No family is immune to that. But we always had so much in common, so many shared interests, that we were able to put our disagreements behind us very quickly.

Christopher may have been born two hundred years late. If he'd been a contemporary of Keats, Shelly and Byron, he'd undoubtedly have found a wealthy patron who'd have paid him simply to write poetry. Chris would have adapted very well to a life of ease and excess. Unfortunately, he had to be born into and exist in the late 20th century. This was no simple task for someone whose feet were firmly planted six feet above the ground. The one thing he consistently applied himself to was his writing. To this day he carries a notebook with him every place he goes, and writes at every opportunity. He's intelligent, insightful and very talented; he can also be something of an intellectual snob. His battle with depression filtered down into his poetry, and his works were (and sometimes still are) morose and filled with nearly impenetrable imagery. He has a quick wit and a good sense of humor, and for years I tried in vain to get him to lighten up and write something a little more accessible. His attitude was that, if people didn't understand him, it was not his failing but theirs. I think he was writing for himself, not for an audience. Only in the last year or two has he begun to look at this existence with a touch of ironic humor.

This, then, is a brief portrait of my elder son. I guess you can tell that I'm very proud of him. But I think the following pages will demonstrate that my pride is justified.

(Note: you can email Chris at .)

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