Dear Child With a Life Cut in Two,
I did not see this for you, this life in two halves.
I planned only one. A path curved beyond horizons I couldn’t yet see, but that wandered through my lands for the first 18 or so years.
One trail, bordered with love and support, structure and shade when you needed it.
This was the landscape I planned for you, much-loved child.
I arranged and I tended. I gardened. Cultivating a life in which you would thrive, create, grow and find joy.
My plans, though, no matter how well-thought or purposely intended, don’t always come to be.
And your path divided in two.
I hurt for not being able to see that other path you walk.
I don’t know its turns or where cracks wait to trip you.
I can’t see you at all, and I long to look at you. Each day. Every day.
I can’t guide you or comfort you, be your strength or give a shove.
The lessons I hope to teach you are beyond my reach there. Your experiences not mine to live with you, at times not even mine to know.
I close my eyes, beloved child, when you are there, to imagine you. And ache with frustrated grief for all that happens without me.
I ache knowing the distance you travel is twice it should be. Each time you come to your life here, you cross a divide from your life there. Your mind restructures, your framework shifts, your rulebook rewrites. Your trail has switchbacks I never intended you to walk.
I watch you for tiredness. For blisters. For disorientation, or for anger.
A fracture breaks fresh with each close of the door behind you.
Though I have only half your minutes…
…you are my son every second.
I cannot be half a mom.
I breathe hope into each day that you feel these truths.
My child with a life cut in two.