Part of our annual Westermeyer summer gathering is a badminton tournament. (Of course we would devise something competitive!) The younger ones among us take our three generational family, spanning ages 2 to 71, seed us according to past results, and put together a bracket. The two youngest, for good reason, didn't play this year, and the oldest among us would have preferred to forfeit! Sorry, Mom, that just isn't allowed. This year, I think, was the first of our tradition's six when there were no tears -- perhaps just internal tears as we middle aged and older generations grieved the continued loss of our reflex and speed. We've also, quite literally, lost the prized trophy, the "battered birdie," for the second year in a row to the eldest grandson, nephew, and son, Zach. Whose hands will receive it next year? Ten years from now?
This picture was taken right after the final game between Uncle Tim and nephew Zach. We enjoyed the moment thoroughly. Will, the youngest, with his "mine" mentality, snatched that battered birdie from his winning cousin and held it high in the air, sharing his (or our?) future desire and perhaps foreshadowing fate. It was as if he were saying, "Just you wait, THIS is going to be mine someday!" I felt like a camera woman at Wimbledon. If only he had kissed it.
What would he be kissing? In my mind much more than the triumphant win of a Westermeyer badminton tournament. It's fun to see the image of him holding his unknown future in front of him, with fearlessness and hope. Makes me want to crawl back into my 2 year old existence, stripping away my baggage of fears, and hold up my own battered birdie of a dream. So battered, yet so beautiful. It's never too late, is it?
No, it's never too late. And, this is so beautiful and poetic it just makes me want to cry!
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