I look at my little boy and think, "how did he get here?" No, I don't need the birds-and-the-bees explanation. I think I have that part figured out. It's not really even a question, but more of an observation. I met his mother in Fort Devens, MA, 18 years before she and I later connected once again. (That's another story).
But why did we meet? If my mom hadn't asked me to go shopping with her; if she hadn't suggested I go into the recruiter's office, I'd have likely never joined the army, or if so, it would have been at a different time. And that's it, isn't it. It's all about time itself and the way things affect the next things and so on.
Let's rewind some more. High School. Shelton, Connecticut. 1959. A boy throws a pencil at a girl who requests one. The teacher in the classroom decides that was rude. He makes the boy go the the girl, pick up the pencil and politely hand it to her. She blushes. Their eyes meet. 3 years later they marry and a year later, I'm born. I'd not be a member of the redroom had my dad not thrown that pencil.
All the people I have ever known. All the events that have ever taken place in my life. Everyone who I have ever talked to or become friends with.....or heck....even enemies....... The man hours I have worked would have been worked by someone else. The entertainment centers I built, would not exist. The things I have written, would not be stories. The people I have helped to become who they are, would not be who they are (i.e. former marriage/adopted son). All of this, because a man threw a pencil.
Symbolic too, is it not? A pencil. I'm a writer. Strange, the things that happen,...... in these little tid-bits of time.