American Dream

Photos tell a story, I know. But there are times when you just want to be in the photos, not taking them. Today was undeniably one of those days and I have nothing to show for it and am glad.

The boys and I spent the day in Boston while Kumi had her hair done.

Before her appointment, we all rode into town on Bob Dylan, parked under Park Street, and the four of us ate dim sum upstairs at a local Shanghai hole in the wall.

After walking our sweet Kumi to the salon, we three men spent most of the sky-blue afternoon between Boston Common and Chinatown, both buzzing in anticipation of the Boston Marathon tomorrow.

At Hugh’s request, we rode the swan boats in the public pond and he thanked me and hugged me every ten minutes for the rest of the day because of it.

Philo asked for nothing in particular but just smiled and shrugged along, full of questions about urban settings and making periodic failed attempts at whistling.

The street musicians were on point in a way I’ve never heard and were as varied as the surfaces of nine planets. The air was cool, but the hot Starbucks coffee was bitterly delicious as usual, and the street-side Bostonian baked treats were warm and divine.

We spent an unusually extended time in a bamboo-clad Chinese martial arts shop, all three of us held captive by the red everything, the swords, the kung fu library books, and the fat Buddhas and dragon statues.

What great kids, what a great town this is – and what a cute haircut.

Photographs or not, I’m a lucky man to live inside the frame of this picture-perfect life, that today hung proudly on the wall of America’s ‪#‎bostonstrong‬ city.


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