I have become a strange acquaintance to fatherhood's semblance neighbor, not through my own push of plow into God's Garden of Eden though. What did happen can best be explained as a game of Hot Potato.
The French fry (not all that French, though) befell upon my lap unknowingly. No one else in my circle outstretched his or her hand to it. The potato was soilless, in desperate need of a field, and as the others looked upon it with disgust - a dud of a sud, troublesome and undesirable - I saw it differently. I bore witness to an essence with the capability to emit electricity, uncommon for something yet so vegetable. I knew it needed to be planted; these first few months would prove vital. I planned to nature the youngling, true the green plant to be all that it could, maybe more, and so I did.
The potato has evolved into this farmer's most prized crop. I water it delicately with nutrients, and I stand, never leaving its shadow, watchful like a second sun, to see it grow just another centimeter and then another. I sometimes have those happily sad dreams of when the potato will burgeon beyond, seed its own fries, needing me no longer, but still and forever looking back to smile and be in appreciative thankfulness. Return one day far from now, it will, I am sure, to hold out its hand to me like I once did to it, trying to amortize an implicit debt. There is no debt to be paid. I was a child before the potato found me, and together, we grew to men.
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