“You know, Dad, I’m only about a foot shorter than you.” This from William, in a sudden observation over pizza.
“Yeah?” And Bill’s answer, though terse, is not offended. He smiles at William, and William smiles back.
“So, that’s not very much.”
“No,” Bill chuckles at William, “a foot is a lot.”
“Yeah, but you’re like thirty years older than me. And I’m only about a foot shorter than you.”
“Well, Granddad is like twenty years older than me, and I’m not any shorter than he is.”
“Yeah, but he’s on his way down the hill.”
Bill pauses, and I pause with him. What does one say to this?
“And where,” I ask, “is your father in reference to this hill?” Bill will be forty in January.
William’s answer comes without hesitation: “He’s at the top of the hill, looking around.” His grin is unaffected and inoffensive and broad.
“And when,” I venture, “will your father begin going down the hill?”
“In twenty years,” he says.
That’s the end of the conversation. There is, after all, a television broadcasting college football in the pizza parlor. But I, for one, am relieved. It’s good to know that one has a good long time on top of that hill. It would be a shame to begin the descent Right Away.
