Hegel

Philosophy, as the thought of the world, does not appear until reality has completed its formative process, and made itself ready. History thus corroborates the teaching of the conception that only in the maturity of reality does the ideal appear as counterpart to the real, apprehends the real world in its substance, and shapes it into an intellectual kingdom. When philosophy paints its grey in grey, one form of life has become old, and by means of grey it cannot be rejuvenated, but only known.

"Papa?"

"Yes, son?"

"Why do you read Hegel to me before bedtime?"

"What? That seems like a silly question to ask."

"I'm sorry, Papa. It's just that I don't understand what it means."

"Well, what don't you understand?"

"All of it."

"Can you be more specific?"

The man beamed down at the boy, intently anticipating a question, almost impatient for the boy to say something, anything. The child sighed and cleared his throat. To the boy's mind it seemed that his father was obsessed with this strange man's ideas.

"Well," said the boy, "I suppose I wonder if the world we live in is grey or another color instead."

"Ah, I see. That's a very good question. So good, in fact, I need to think for a minute to come up with a proper answer."

As the man sat up straight on the side of the bed and tilted his chin toward the ceiling in contemplation, the boy peered past him and through the second-story window looking out at the leafless tree in the back yard glowing golden brown in the moonlight. The sky on the horizon was dappled with fluorescent white cloud puffs tinged with a hint of radiant blue around their edges.

"Son?"

"Yes, Papa?"

"I don't know the answer to your question." The man slumped his shoulders a bit and shook his head. "I'll have to think more about that before tomorrow night's bedtime story. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, Papa."

"Goodnight son."

"Goodnight Papa."

The man kissed his son on the forehead before rising to leave the room. He turned off the light and closed the door until it was open just a crack.

"You can close it all the way, Papa."

"Won't you be afraid of the dark?"

The boy looked through the window again at the luminescence beyond. "No, I think I'll be okay."

"Well, okay. But just give a holler if you need anything."

"Okay, Papa. Goodnight."

"Goodnight son."

After his father closed the door, the boy looked at the tree, its branches branching and branching beyond his view. The puffy white clouds drifted slowly from right to left across the window. Very slowly. When one finally disappeared from view on the left another would appear in a minute or two on the right. The boy wondered if the clouds were circling around the house to start all over again. It was a lazy wondering, the cozy wondering of a boy falling asleep watching tree branches and clouds through his window on a moonlit night.