THE HIGHER LOCK

It was much easier then, when you would bound through the open door, small legs propelling you into the world you could usually only see through the window. Determination fueled your sharp giggles, as padded feet pounded on the concrete stoop. You seemed to move like lightning, but it was really no problem at all to catch you, to take you up in my arms, to rush you back into the safety of our home. With the heavy oak door closed and firmly locked, I would return to the groceries abandoned on the kitchen floor. You, though, were still undeterred in your quest. Small hands wringing the doorknob to no avail. You reached and reached, but the lock was too high. Tantrums of two-year-old rage would ensue when a sharp and deliberate fall on your bottom would fail to gain any sympathy from me. I was too smart for your tricks. Finally, your attention would focus on some previously abandoned toy or cartoon pictures on the television, and all would be well until your next opportunity to escape arose.
Now, in the waning hours of the evening, I wonder if all I’ve done for you is enough. I can’t sweep you up in my arms anymore. You would never let me. I sit in the dark, oblivious to the flashing images on our old television. I stare out the window, wondering what treasures you’ve finally discovered. Did I have enough wisdom to impart on you to make a difference? I know the trials that this world has to offer. I grew up in it, also. And if you make some of the wrong decisions, what am I to do? Can I punish you? I’ve made the same mistakes. Do I grab your hand in mine and tell you that your best is all you can do, or are you too old for that, too? Why can’t I squirrel you away in the comfort and security of this house like I used to do when you were only a boy? I fear that there is not a lock high enough that you cannot reach. You will explore and experience the world as you see fit. I can only see to it that you know you always have my love.
Flashing headlights swinging across my vision startle me from my conscious dreaming. The engine purrs, then stops, as I wrangle some blankets on top of me. I could never let you know I worry about you like this. I pretend to be sleeping. The heavy oak door opens, and I hear your big boots press deep into the carpet as you pass the living room. Suddenly, you stop. Then you start again, and shortly I feel a gentle hand caressing my shoulder, gently shaking me.
“Dad,” you call me as I pretend to be roused from a deep and much needed sleep. “It’s late. Are you gonna go to bed?”
I nod my head and assure you that I’m on my way there. You smile at me, and go out into the hallway, up the stairs, and into your room. I arrange the blanket, turn off the TV, and then go to the front door. The lock has been securely fastened. I, too, retreat up the stairs and retire to your mother's and my room, and fall asleep.