Love Defined | by Paul Walter Hauser

Michael Webster had only known a small number of loves in his life, none of them human. The shrilling but welcome sound of a train’s whistle and all of its moving parts were music to Michael’s ears, dating back to the days spent at his grandparent’s house where a track was placed only thirty yards from their handmade swing set.

As he grew older, it was all things Texas Hold ‘Em. Most nights, his Ohio State dorm room was inhabited by a few fellow beer bellies, huddled up to a card table with a poker set that they “borrowed” from a student activities room on the first floor. Low on funds and thirsty for carelessness, they would bet cans of Budweiser or Travis Geisner’s “fancy” Rolling Rock as their prison-like currency. Plastic multi-colored chips were never enough. When Michael graduated law school at 28, he received the gift of an official, green-felt card table. His weekly showdown upon the octagonal masterpiece would become monthly, and then not at all—for Michael would have to prove his provisions to Wendy, who was with child. Even the greatest of hands dealt would not be enough to pay for the frocks and formulas.

He had long since heard that when a man sees his baby born, an overflowing wave of transition takes flight, both in loving something more than you realized was possible and in becoming a man that you neglected to admit would one day become necessary. But it was not that feeling that Michael had experienced. Confusion, fear, and nausea were a bit more prevalent, and while Wendy maintained a shocking amount of insight and placidity, Michael had more than a few moments of leaving the room for his solo act in the hallway. Like an arrest, his hands were flat against the wall, his back bent and stamina faltering, in search of a comfortable breathing pattern and understanding of the depth and gravity that inhabits fatherhood.

It wasn’t until after the birth, one particular night when Michael could not fall asleep. Ordinarily, baby Darla’s crying and the light thumping of her small heel stomps were the culprit of Michael’s forced insomnia. On this full moon Thursday, Michael had gone from checking fantasy football lineups to throwing out leftovers in the refrigerator to deciding on an outfit for the next day. Without a peep from Darla, there was nothing quite drawing him to her room other than the lack of options.

He tiptoed in—the walls a cake-batter yellow and the carpet soft and frilly, cozy enough to sleep on. Michael paused in hesitation, wondering if the sneak visitation would be cause for a sudden awakening and, worse, a fit of wailing that would not soon be forgotten or forgiven by Wendy. But Michael felt moved to take a peek at the now-hushed and peaceful infant.

Reaching the crib, Michael crossed his arms, and with piercing eyes, gave a stern and inspecting stare, as if he were dissecting her slumber or expecting alarm amidst the soothing quiet.

It was not Darla’s potential for growth or the culmination of some unknown greatness that was moving and fascinating. What did bloom these thoughts and feelings was Darla’s immediate state of being. She was this thoughtless, undeveloped being that made camp on Earth without knowing and at the mercy of all she would encounter. Everything was new to her and she was simply trying to process and coexist. There wasn’t much to enjoy yet, other than the necessities and daily maintenance of breast milk and diaper changes. At this stage, she was more of a project than a product, and that Michael felt a booming unconditional love and loyalty to this project, before product, was the moment that some had spoke of.

“Being cute” wasn’t it. Precious in sight? Sure. The precious nature of existence and the promise of a fulfilled life had Michael’s chest clutching. It was he and Wendy’s responsibility that she would receive all that the world has to offer, not by merit, but by her parents’ desire for her to take in beauty, laughter, and the fondest of shared experiences.

It was this that broke Michael’s crossed arms. His hand crept up to his mouth, cupping his chin with fingers creating a sort of gate over his lips. Effortless tears fell singular on the plains of his cheeks and the need for a healthy breathing pattern returned, but this time carrying the breeze of love defined and not the downpour of weight unseen or warning of untimely preparation.

Michael Webster lingered for almost twenty minutes and Darla would not stretch awake for another four hours. Life and love’s timing did not occur when everyone claimed they would. A moment, good or bad, decides on its own. What remained true, outside of the untrue proposal of life’s timing, was the clarity of love’s definition and the beauty of its selflessness. Darla would one day grow to know and love her father, but for now, it was he and Wendy. Love was forgetting oneself to remember another, and Michael knew that his nightly trips beside the crib would now be on schedule. Life was impromptu, but love had a plan.

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Next time on The Hindsight Bridge: “Memories in Austria.” Robbie Pieschke constructs the story of the well-to-do David Westlock, who, after his grandmother’s passing, is flown from LA to the Alps to inherit her furtive condo in the mountains. Quickly, David discovers that traces of his grandmother’s life are not unappealing and may be reinvented. Revisit on August 8^th for more! Also, be sure to look us up on Facebook for updates and snippets of past/future “things I almost forgot.”