We all know what happened on the 7th day. Indeed all God’s work was done: there was day, there was night, there was water, there was land, there were plants, there were animals, there was man, and there was woman. God rested.

As a man, God probably put his feet up, opened up a cold Bud Lite, chips, chunky salsa, perhaps some hot wings, a cold pizza, and watched Sunday’s football game on the newly acquired 102” HDTV hung on the wall with a ridiculous Bose surround system. As a woman, God most likely drew a bubble bath with wonderful oils, drank champagne with strawberries, got a seaweed body wrap, a mani-pedi, a microdermabrasion with a vitamin C treatment, followed by a Swedish deep tissue massage. But as a gay man, God would spend a fabulous evening at the 70s club wearing burgundy pleather bell bottom pants, a sparkly lime green shirt, a rainbow afro wig and hustle to the best beats the disco era produced while smoking some of the best all-natural exotic hallucinogens.

The next morning would not be pretty.

And the 8th days is certainly not a pleasant one. If you are a boy (man), this is the day that you are awaken at a forsaken early hour, are made to wear a funny hat is taped to your head, and are exposed completely and spread eagle in broad public view of a bunch of geriatric (in comparison of course) people that pretend to know you and care about you. But they watch in horror as they get you drunk and snip a piece of your manhood. Then, they proceed to partake in a feeding frenzy of lox, bagels along some foods that I cannot spell. All in the name of religion.

Of course if you are a girl, you skip the public humiliation and proceed to calmly plan a fabulous party a la debutant style to name you and present you to family and friends.

Evan Mateo Clarfield was brissed (circumcised) today. As most looked away or refused to stand close to the pseudo surgical table, my father was in charge in holding Evan while I reluctantly took a plethora of pictures. My sister shed a few tears, and I decided to turn away during the “cutting” and gave Evan some decency: no before, during, and after shots of the affected area. All and all, the little guy did amazing, a little crying followed by hours of sleep interrupted by quiet adoration of the visitors and the shutter noise of my camera.

The images captured freeze this precious moment. Time goes in and as my father said today “some people come, and some people go.” I go tomorrow back to Houston, thinking that the next time I see Evan, he will probably be twice as big, if not more, have more hair, hear better, see better, cry louder, and perhaps even be able to go from here to there on his own. Whatever happens from here on, I know I will always have this 8th.

Thankfully, Evan will not remember a thing.