To my sons,
My innards are twisted and anxious at times.
It’s not tragic. I don’t panic.
It’s a common occurrence. For it’s the ache for all the things I want to do for you and all the things I want for you.
It’s realizing some will not get done. Some will be encumbered. Some will age out. Some will be too lofty and some will be forgotten.
It’s about being a father. The only thing that comes instinctively to man.
We can’t let go, but we have to—we literally must.
It’s an excruciating love.
It’s the healing of self. It’s extreme excitement through our children. It’s not controlling, but it is constant movement.
My sons will know someday what this all is. They’ll witness their father’s grip loosen over time and not know at first that their bond is strengthened by that loosening. Sometimes it will not feel good, but it’s an ever-evolving story we have.
We can’t erase things, and we shouldn’t, but we can turn the page. We will fill every edge of every new chapter. All the things we did will spill over—remembered and saved for much later in life.
You can count on that. Your mind is a memory box. Let’s slowly start to be free.
What do you say, my boys—my men?
Let’s write our own way to ensure what we have—the strongest metal with the softest cores.
We have no governor—no impediments. We have nothing to lose by reinventing ourselves over and over until we find what we need. Breathe in satisfaction and elation, and breathe out stress and worry.
All the things, I promise, will be there and remembered to the end.
We have no strife, not really.
Don’t be afraid of silence.
But also be loud when needed.
Always speak up.
My sons, today is new.
What say you?