The finest father's day gift

Little Xree couldn't wait to celebrate my first father's day this morning. He knocked on my door just before dawn and asked me to join him on a stroll through the neighboring gardens. We stepped out under a solstitial mustard-tinged sky and hands behind our backs, slightly forward bent, the two of us walked.

The philadelphus blossoms glowed and the roses welcomed the solstice with gaping mouths. Achilles lit his little corncob pipe and turned to me, his old man.

"Great father of mine," he began, "I have but one concern after these first six days. A concern that only a father can resolve."

I pointed toward a stone bench tucked underneath a purply leaved plum tree. We sat upon it, and each sighed a tiny Studebake sigh.

"Tell me, young Throckmorton, what is this concern of yours?" I followed the smoke of his pipe as it caressed the plump fruit above our heads.

"Well, it's a matter of nomenclature."

"Nomenclature?" I queried. "Are you displeased with your names?"

He pulled from the pipe. The burning embers glowed and enlightened his little thoughtful face.

"Oh no. It's not that. I am proud to carry such noble names."

He fell silent and turned away.

I awaited his words with patience. What nomenclatural concern could young Achilles Renoir Exree Hipp Throckmorton Hastrobal Clementino Studebake hold within that two inch chest of his?

He shifted his posture signaling a willingness to continue.

"I feel slighted, dear father."

"Slighted?"

He turned to me.

"Indeed, slighted. Why so few names? Don't I deserve more?"

"Do you mean to say that you would like more names?" I asked. "Eight is not enough?"

"No, eight is not enough. That is why I would like you to bestow upon me a new name every father's day."

I nearly leaped from the bench through the thickly branched plum tree into the now peach tinted sky. What joy. What a wonderful father's day gift!

"I accept, my worthy son."

We embraced vigorously as fathers and sons do.

"On this first father's day of mine I bestow upon you a new name: Kikuchiyo."

Young Kikuchiyo nodded with satisfaction. He knocked out his pipe and reached deep into his cape. He turned his wrist causing a single metallic click and slowly pulled out his hand. He brought out the handle of an ancient katana, followed by less than an inch of blade reflecting the pink clouds above.

"I am pleased with this name, father. I will place it after Clementino and before Studebake. Thank you."

And with this he swiftly brought out the sword and swiped two ripened plums from the tree above. Both of which fell softly into my lap.

"Happy father's day." He said to me as he sheathed his katana.

The two of us spent the long morning of the solstice underneath the purple tree, eating its fruit and tossing the pits. All the while we shared our favorite samurai stories. A fine father's day this is.