***
"You don't glue broken plastics." my father said after I told him my plans to frankenstein one out of the three broken bicycles sitting forgoten in our basement back into life. He had no idea why I was doing what I was doing, other than naively thinking that, maybe, what I was getting out of the whole deal was a simple weekend retreat. Balancing at the scales' tipping point, weighing a person eager to help and a father trying to reconnect, he taught me how to fix broken plastics. We descended to our basement, more resemblant of a junkyard than a workshop, looked for another piece of plastic made of the same material and after a 10 minute search concluded that what we had in hand had to do. I held the two broken pieces tightly together while my father, using only a soldering iron, poked a few holes into where the plastic had broken off, melting and fusing the material together. After that the newly found old plastic served us as a glue, melted, filling in whatever had to be filled in. A few finishing touches later, the mudguard looked like new to an unassuming eye.
"So, what about girls?"
"Oh, not much. A while back I've fallen for this girl but it hasn't worked out. She wasn't into me, I mean the whole thing got complicated. It's a shame though because I really, really thought that she would be perfect..."
"Well..." my father said, averting his look down right, "Some things are worth the struggle."
Not much more was said that evening and I didn't think much of the little that had been. Time, robbing Sun of it's mark and trees of their leaves, at last made it's way towards me. It's uncanny how clearly can one see when enough distance is put in between. Much unlike my short review of Beckett's Watt conveyed only to her, life, if segmented, may make sense, but as a whole is undeniably a mess. The trouble is that life doesn't allow itself to be lived in bits and pieces. And so here I am, a season or a week later, wiser. Or at least I like to think that time has been a good friend to me. If we are to consider time, we ought to consider it in a wider frame than that of the seasons in which our existence bathes. A foolish son ignoring advice of his oldest elder, and thus encumbering not only himself, but the elder as well by errors never eradicated. Better use the bridges already built, if we are to cross.
The look in his eyes, overflowing with regret of paths not taken, of struggles abandoned, mirrored a wonder in mine. A wonder of what awaits those that endure, whatever the struggle might be. I see that what binds us together is the inborn aim of becoming the most glorious victims of a transitional period of morality. My path, lit dimly by my father's regret - a guide distant like the winter Sun, unbeaten. My love, a scratch on the roof of my mouth that would heal if only I could stop tonguing it, teaches me that time has always been a gentle friend to me, and that it is the very regret that is to be eradicated rather than the supposed error.
***