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Epistolary novel of a man in the winter of his life writing to a young son born to him late. A few stories of his life with musings on meaning, faith, and family. These are the thoughts of a man who tried and cared, who operated under the assumption that of course we all would, someone who recognized his mistakes and didn't quite slide into self-righteousness, who lived a very simple life. Small moments of stealthy humor. A gentle and somehow comforting read.

I'd always assumed that if one lived in a right way, without giving offense, contributing to the betterment of all as one can, then life would work out. To my mind, as presented to me in what I observed and was told, that meant there would be the fulfillment of a spouse and child/children with all its frustrations and joys. It hasn't unfurled like that for me. As I'm now told on the radio and by peers in the same unbalanced state, this is okay! We can be independent and still fulfilled! I agree with this, I really do. But it's hard to release those lingering expectations. I don't expect to reverse this in a few decades like the main character in the book since that works differently for women than for men, and I don't expect to be anything other than trucking along with growing wrinkles. But reading of his quiet delight, all unlooked for, eased something clenched within me. There is much more depth to this book. That's the bright eddy that captured me in my reading of it.