Dear Mom,
I know who I am, so help me, I do. For better or worse, I have always been true to myself.
I am a three year old boy, sitting in the grass looking up at you with a dimpled smile.
I am a five year old who bought you a figurine of a beautiful woman at a garage sale because I thought her dark, ceramic hair looked like yours. I still feel bad that I broke it when I was mad at you, but with my young hands, I glued it back together. Isn’t that what people do when they love one another and are angry, they glue the pieces back the best they can? Your smile and hug said you forgave me.
I am a seven year old who became frightened that year, the trauma started to build a solid base on my tight shoulders, and I became a kid who hid his fear so you would not know. What I knew was that your strength protected me. Your love was too strong for me to be ruined.
I am a ten year old with scraped knees from climbing trees. You patched me up and told me to keep climbing. I’ve been climbing all of my life.
I am a twelve year old who was losing himself in the turmoil of life. A similar chaos you recognized in yourself but didn’t recognize it was getting heavy, suffocating me. You stayed loving me, never giving up, holding me accountable, and trying to show me a different way than getting placed in cuffs. You recently told that story and how you told the cops to scare the hell out of me. “Scare him straight,” you said you told them. They almost did.
I am a thirteen year old running a touchdown with one shoe on. That story makes you laugh.
I am a fifteen year old who fell in love with a girl and has been ever since. Can one die of loving too much? If so, it would have happened by now.
I am a nineteen year old who ran the drill instructors to the ground when they challenged me in bootcamp and became a marksman in SF. You didn’t recognize me when I returned home. Hell, I didn’t recognize myself.
I am a twenty three year old who said, “I do” and never looked back.
I am a twenty five year old who watched my father die. I’ll say it for both of us, I am glad the son of a bitch is gone and left early on. When you were hallucinating the other night, it sounds like you killed him in your sleep. That’s okay. I hope it gives you closure.
I am a thirty seven year old who became a teacher. It’s something I never thought I would do, but tragedy pushed me towards wanting to teach. I hope I am good at it. I hope I have helped some kids along the way.
I am a forty year old who watched you lose a child. That is a heartbreak that cannot be sewn, not even with the strongest of stitches.
I have run obstacles all my life and made it to the end.
I have climbed mountains and fell down a few. I have walked wooded paths that seem like they were made only for my feet, and I have seen sunsets that seemed like they were only for my eyes. I have been to Celtic nations and walked in the city lights, and I swam in oceans that spun me in the waves. Mountain lions have crossed my path on a few trail runs and I watched a few bears roam, and I talked to hundreds of young people about living their lives to the best of their ability. I have advocated for students until I was threatened by the ignorance of society, and I have written novels and was told they helped. Some said my words saved them. That is daunting to think about but I am grateful. I have learned to forgive and I have learned to let go. I have said goodbye to friends, and I have held many a dog’s paws as they passed over the rainbow. I have lived a good life. I have walked barefoot in the warm sand.
I have done a lot with the life I have had so far, but what I am most proud of is being a husband and your son. If I am good at either one of those, then I am content.
Your heart is slowing. I can feel it. My chest is heavy and I feel like I am breathing for the both of us.
Love,
Chuck
