I love you, Wesley.
It isn't how much you smile, though that is wonderful. It isn't how much you learn, how long you can focus on a single problem, how you beg for books to be read to you all the time, how you always want to join me in my cooking, and say "hot!" It isn't all the little things, or even what they add up to. It is more basic, more binary than that.
It is that you are ours.
It is that you are.
That is the miracle.
I have asked for many more years with you, as any parent does. But there is no peak knowledge, no peak capacity to a human. You are fully you, as fully as I am me. The potential you have is only icing on a fully baked cake. Any thought less is sacrilege: you are no less than me, you are as much as me - if anything, you are more (unsullied by disenchantment, by insecurity, by selfishness, so quick to love and believe and trust, as if that was what the world was for).
There is one particular thing I want you to learn: scale. So much knowledge can be summed up in comparisons of scale. One of your favorites books right now poses two questions: “What is smaller than a flea?” and “What is bigger than the sky?” The answer to the first, according to this book for kids, is “A world of things too small to see.” To the second: “The never ever ending sky.” I hope you understand how trite both of those are. There are real answers. In fact, there is one answer to both questions. An overarching, and an underpinning. A first, and a last. A beginning, and an end.
You began one year ago. Now we get to count: 1. If you live average, you’ll have 70-ish more of these. There are a thousand decisions that increase or decrease that number. My great-grandmother lived to be 101. She jogged each day until she was 97. My mother attributes my great-grandmother’s health to her positive attitude. As miraculous as this longevity is, the goal of life is not more days or more years. It is good days. You have already had so many good days.
You broke your mother, you know. In more ways than one. But the pain let you graft into her in a way too precious for me to covet. Even if I must admire the bond you share with her at a distance, it is worth it. This year has been the story of you, beginning, but it has also been the story of her, changing chapters. I would pick no better son to hurt her than you, and no more constant warmth, no more ambitious mind to challenge her and nestle into her than you.
You are the miracle.
A tired word for tired people.
Code for uncanny/incredible/can't.
A name for an event I must admit
makes me believe the supernatural exists.
You were born 1 year and 34 minutes ago.
I caught you.
You were a tired word born to tired people.
You stood for the incredible.
You were an event I must admit
made me believe the supernatural exists.
You traipse through the days,
hunkered into my elbow crook.
You while toward time I do not have
and you find it for me.
You careen frequently,
veer on and off my path
at the most inconvenient intervals.
You furl up to say goodnight once a day
like clockwork conjured
from some preimagined rhythm.
You tinge everything with smile,
mull the click of buckles,
find the kilter in the sleep cycle,
and hoodwink me with wink-attempts
You are a fresh take on stale speech.
You stand for the simple.
You are an event I still admit
makes me believe God exists.