The High Five

I can't high five. My son's friend Tyler walks into the kitchen, raises a hand, and I go for it and hit his wrist. Or I'm early. Or I come in with a fist and he has a palm, and we stand there like two people who've come to the wrong door.

I practiced on the cupboard. The cupboard has a mark. I watched a group of boys at the park to see how they did it, and they did it without looking, which seems to be the whole method.

Tyler is seventeen. He has never once pulled his hand away. He holds it up at exactly the same height, completely still, like a man waiting for a bus, and lets me find it.

Sometimes it takes three tries. He's fine with three tries.

He leaves for college in the fall.

Last week I hit it dead center. He said, “Nice one.”

I didn't want to leave the kitchen.