If I can get you through this year all my years will have been worth it. Because if the only thing that makes me special is getting you to pick up the phone, turn on the light, open the door; well then that’s not such a bad place to make a home.
I watched a leaf fall off a tree today. First leaf of the season. It reminded me that skylines change. The way the trees look today is not the way that they will always look, nor is it the way that they should always look.
I watched a boy fall out of a tree today. First boy of the season. He reminded me that bodies change. The way our bones look today is not the way that they will always look, nor is it the way that they should always look.
My years were built of trees that did not grow and bones that did not break. But in the year built of you and I the trees have risen and fallen like heartbeats with branches that reach like arms to cling to steadfast earth. In the year built of you and I my bones fractured as your flesh was torn from you, and the breaks didn’t heal back the way the doctors wanted.
You were never a little girl and this year was not the story of you becoming a man. You are finally the boy in the tree but you will never be small. Sorry you never had years to learn how the seasons change or how the body mends. Sorry you lived it all in one hour.
It is so loud and your voice on the phone is so quiet. But you answered. It is so dark and your desk lamp is so dim. But it is on. It is so small and your door is so heavy. But you opened it.
And you grow. And you mend. Yes, I am home. And this is our year.