Koloman is 6. His head barely reaches my waist, but he plies his legs with great activity–circling around me, climbing onto low rocks, picking up sticks to throw downhill. It’s a shame that our friends’ retriever is not with us, since the dog’s desire to fetch long branches nicely matches Koloman’s desire to throw them. As we walk, we speculate on important matters. Are there rattlesnakes among the rocks? Is that a dead branch or the antler of a giant elk? Could we successfully fight off a bear? Koloman is certain we could, and I do not demur.
The trail ascends more steeply. The light has grown noticeably dimmer. Time to turn around. Koloman looks back the way we came and asks, “Can I run down?” I think for a moment. The leaves are a bit slippery. They conceal rocks. There is a chance that he’ll lose his footing and take a tumble. The actuary in me points out that I could eliminate a great deal of risk by compelling Koloman to walk in a sensible, sure-footed manner. The romantic in me sympathizes with his desire to fly down the twilit hillside.
Americans of my generation are conditioned to be sensitive, to take account of others and weigh consequences. So I consider that his parents might not allow Koloman to run. Parents have to watch closely over their children, to save them from hurting themselves, to caution them. But I am an uncle; I love at greater remove. Koloman will always turn first to his parents for comfort and protection. They guard and maintain his roots. But every once in a while he will turn to me for encouragement of his wild and beautiful self. I can help him grow wings. “Go ahead,” I say.
Koloman takes off, running. He leans forward, almost falling, his legs churning to keep up and feet hitting the ground at crazy angles. I remember the sensation of running downhill at his age. I remember that sense of breathlessness, of suspended danger, the suppressed alarm that at any moment I might hurtle faceward toward the unforgiving ground. But I also remember the effortlessness, the way gravity worked to help me fly, the sense of soaring. And I remember the sheer joy of expending energy, when energy built up like water behind a dam in the springtime.
I still like that extravagance. Not so long ago, a smooth older dancer watched me dancing and said, “You’ve got the moves, you just work too hard.” The truth is that sometimes I like to work too hard. I like spending energy as if it flowed from a limitless source. I like lavish gestures. But these days I also practice tai chi, and try to develop habits that will aid in conserving my chi energy and thus remain vital into old age. I practice moving efficiently. A certain calmness has descended on me. It is with a measured pace that I follow in Koloman’s exuberant wake, examining the colors of the leaves as I go.
I’ve been told the leaves of spring already contain the brilliant colors they will show in autumn. They’re not visible because they are masked by the green of chlorophyll. When the chlorophyll drains away in autumn, the concealed colors of the leaf are revealed. The green force that drives the shoot through the ground and stretches the stalk toward the sun hides the latent character of the leaf.
I wonder if I am undergoing a similar change. As the urgency of my own green force abates, will formerly obscured aspects of my nature come to light? What will be revealed? Will my aging include the unveiling of a whole new palette of colors, and not a simple fade to gray? I remember how my grandmother became more beautiful as she aged; how her skin grew softer and finer; how her flesh seemed to melt away, leaving her essential and delicate armature.
Koloman is waiting for me a little way down the path. “Can I run some more?” he asks. Once more my permission sends him zooming down the hill. He careers this way and that, his bright blue shirt dancing from side to side, smaller and smaller amid the reds and yellows of the leaves. His straight blond hair streams first to one side and then the other in company with his footfalls. He runs until he is almost out of sight, then stops and waits for me to catch up and release him yet again.
We proceed that way through the dwindling light all the way back to the house where the family waits with dinner. He doesn’t fall once.
