From Word To Word

I woke early this morning to go to the market with my father and my youngest son, three generations of family, and it was colder outside than it has been yet this year, with a strong wind blowing from the north into our faces as we made our way home, and my son began to cyy because of the cold, refusing either to walk or to sit in the wagon, and it was inexpressibly right, somehow, that my father and I took turns pulling the wagon of groceries behind us and carrying my crying son, like a living metaphor of familial care through generations.