Wednesday, September 22, 2010

A Letter to Star and Some Other Important Thing



My Star,


By the time you could make sense of what I'm saying, you already have a perception of me that was brought about by the things I do or did not do. Because of my imperfections, there's a possibility that you learn to loathe me. I apologize if I seem to be judging you; I can't help but say this because I learned the same thing about my own mother. I could only hope that you and I don't wind up on that same road.


Right now, I am watching you sleep, admiring you and how beautiful you are. The curve of your cheeks and how light plays at the edges of your eyelashes remind me that the world is good and everything will be alright. You make me feel grateful for being alive. In the future, when I am older, I may forget to tell you this, so I am writing this down now.


I will change as you grow, but I promise that I will strive to be a better version of myself. You deserve no less, Star. But please understand that in order to be my best self, I do have to stay away from you from time to time. Just as I am doing in this season of our lives.


I apologize for being away most of the time. I only see you when I wake and before I sleep. Even on weekends, I am not yours, but I hope that you feel that I am still with you, because I am.


While I am afraid to make promises I cannot keep, let me just say that I will do my best to always, always be there. I am excited to teach you things, and I hope I can teach them well. From holding a pencil properly to riding a  bike. From doing math to making peace with bullies (unless, of course, you turn out to be the bully). From prioritizing what you want to do to making friends with boys. From knowing yourself to wanting to know God. And many other things. Your first sip of beer will come from me, if you do not find it awkward. I promise not to tell you how to live your life if you can promise me that you'll have a good head on your shoulders and a kind heart in your chest.


I will not clip your wings.


There are so many things I'd like to tell you right now, but most of them will be contained in the short sentences I speak such as "That's dirty. Don't touch that," "Get away from there, no, you might fall," and "What's the matter? Why are you crying?" Hopefully, the little things I do carry enough of my presence to help shape you and equip you for this life.


Tonight, before turning in, I somewhat feel helpless, just so you know, because as of now, in your sleep, all I can offer is my warmth.








I can't breathe.


(September 22, 2010)                                                 


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