They say that if we are done well, we are doing the best we can with what we have and are, at any given point on this journey of life. This then makes it dangerous to look back and judge with these eyes-one hopes-have become more wisened with age….
Therefore I say to you my son on this eve of your golden birthday, 29 on the 29th, I am sorry if I loved you so madly that you did not take it as the love you need.
I am sorry if my madness became a bind rather than a balm. I am sorry if my passion for you over any other creation on earth leaves you bereft of feeling for your
self.
I am sorry if my best then has left you with holes that need filling in your you now. Holes maybe not created by me, though maybe, yet still unable to be filled by me.
Perhaps this is my most selfish ache; to be all to my sons.
I am sorry my son, all of you my sons, if the love I feel for you-which overwhelms my heart and body still to this day-has become in your life an essay against the foils of parenthood or God forbid, love in this world.
I pray it all, the opposite.