Travelling

Dear Son,

I had this dream, and it lingers. I was walking through the woods, nowhere in particular, but not lost. Travelling. I came to a pond and looked down at my reflection. There were tiny little waves, and the ripples carried my reflection away through time, and I saw myself as an old man, wrinkles around the eyes from laughing, and creases in my brow from worry. When the water settled, I saw an infant, skin bereft of trouble or time, smooth and soft. It wasn’t me. It was you.

I’ve written and rewritten this, and wiped the slate clean because there was little honesty to the words. I don’t want to lie. I’ve lied only once to you, since you came into this world almost two years ago. I whispered, “I’ll always be here for you,” under hospital lights, but I won’t. That was, just like the earlier attempts at this letter, a lie I told myself. I want to be there for you, forever. One day, I won’t be. I’ll be gone, nowhere in particular, but not lost. Travelling.

Something will remain. I used to be afraid of that. That’s why it took so long for you to be. I was afraid of what I would put into you, onto you. Even after the moment you were born, I had the terror in me because I thought family were just paper dolls strung up in a line that’s really a loop. Then, they brought me to you, purple from the cord wrapped around you, and when I cut that cord I freed us both. I haven’t had a moment’s worry since.

But I’ve lied. I’ve lied to myself about our roles. I want you to be better than me. That’s the job of the father, I was convinced, to hoist you on my shoulders to get you closer to the stars.

I wrote a list of what I want for you, my son. I want you to know love and courage and pride. I want the sun on your face and the wind at your back. A part of me ends the list there. Another part says I want you to fall flat on your face, to have your heart broken. I want you to feel lost, and to question if you have what it takes. It will hurt, and it will hurt me. I want these things for you because I know you will wipe yourself clean and get to your feet. You will grit your teeth and push. You will rise. One day I will watch you go, nowhere in particular, but not lost. Travelling.

Being honest with myself, that list was not just written for you. It was also for the younger me. The boy who dreamed. The boy who was hurt. And here we are, at the truth. I want you to be better than me, but I am your model, the one who creates ripples that reach to the end and all the way back. I need to be the man I want you to be. I don’t know if I can, but I promise to give my best every day. It’s what I will ask of you. You and I are both teacher and student, the ones who gaze at reflections and make ripples. We see life through each other’s eyes, and we grow together. We rise.

You’re still sleeping, tired from our walk in the woods. You walked ahead on the trail, going where in particular, but not lost. Travelling.

Sincerely, Your Dad