In the eyes of the boy, I am everything. I know everything. Can do everything (except build snowmen). My kisses heal wounds. My breath in the night scares away the darkness. My hugs bring him home.
I carried him then, gave him life. Nourished his body with mine. Carry him still.
To me he can say, “I love you, too” even when I haven’t said it first, because sometimes love is unspoken.
In the eyes of the boy I am perfect.
In the eyes of the man, I am the other half. The other half of one whole.
I offer what I can and he takes it, adds to it and makes it more.
If I need help I can ask for it and he gives it. Sometimes I can’t ask for it and he gives it anyway.
I have said, “I’m sorry.” And he has said, “There are no conditions.”
In the eyes of the man I am perfect in my imperfection.
To me, the boy is life and light and lilting laughter. He is me and he is the man: he is the poignancy of potential. He’s also his own person and don’t you dare mess with that.
He is perfect.
To me, the man is the source of much of the best of the boy. He is more – much more – than I knew when I met him. He is my patience and my strength. He is rational when I’m not. He laughs when I can’t.
He is love, and love is perfect.
I’m lucky to have them, these two. My two.