I advance a note.
A sum provided, with no expectation of repayment, to my boys.
Tristan David, son of a steel city, but two generations before him would be toiling in mines is instead a roustabout recluse, polite and capable as a cowboy, and with an earnest way that few friends of mine have ever shown.
Winter Erik, a passionate little pile of rebellion that will prove his life both more difficult and rewarding than either of his brothers, if he continues to figure out the many opportunities to gather that freedom he’s already so steadfastly chasing.
And to my baby, Wylder Reisen, who literally has gravel in his gut, but like each brother before him, has proven to break the mold with his dashing presence a time or two over, and mild manner, all tinged with a cunning willingness that can be seen at two where most fellows wouldn’t arrive at in 20.
I’m a blessed man, all boys and several of them, and for each I see their differences, and for each I am so appreciative of the idea that they’re mine. Not just my offspring, not just my kids. They’re my legacy, my rock stars, the rest of my life spent teaching and being taught by a pack of fabulous wolves.