Occam’s father shares a rite of passage with his son, who’s now of age to shave with a straight razor. As Occam learns the intimate art of holding the blade at an acute angle while performing short strokes against the grain to match the sharp curves of his face, he opens up about life choices.
“I know that if presented with two choices, one good and the other evil, for my own happiness, I ought to choose the former. And if presented with two choices, both evil, I know to choose the lesser of the two. But I don’t know what to do if presented with two good choices.”
He looks at his son through the mirror and responds, “Pick the less convoluted one.”
Occam nods as a gesture of both hearing and agreement. A moment is shared, when old and new come together, wisdom and humility breathing the same air, calling it “home.”
Then something strange happens, something only Father can see. The cracks and weariness on his face are transferred to his son, and the radiance and youthfulness of his son are transferred to him.
The father experiences a paradox of emotions—delight and fright strike him at the same time like twin bolts from Zeus’s quiver; delight for feeling young again, and fright for the suffering of life his son must endure.
A tear gaining momentum awaits its ultimate consummation, being released from its summit of space to swim in a stream of timelessness. But from what summit? The summit of joy? The summit of fear? Or will they work together—the hand of the former and the latter—both rolling a salty stone to its threshold and then pushing it out of its nest into a strange new world?
It turns out to be the same hands doing all the work—the hands of fear. Father’s bravado lapses. He cries in front of his son for the first time.
The mirror becomes a confessional: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t have brought you up in a better world.”
A reflection of empathy strikes his father, followed by a fast stroke of razor-sharp truth: “It’s not your fault.”
“I know… I know… Still, I wish I could’ve sung you more songs and played more games with you. But the phone kept ringing.”
“You did everything you could to make my childhood great. I don’t dwell on the bad. I choose to remember the good. Now let me go to live out the truths you’ve taught me.” With sharp, shaved features, he finishes, “It won’t be long before I stand where are you are, looking into greener eyes in the mirror, gleaming with excitement to learn wisdom passed down from generations.”