Falling together

Dear Valor: Letters to My Son (#4)

Dear reader,

I found a couple hours to dash off another letter to Valor, my son. Still getting used to those words, “my son.” Blessed beyond blessed. We’re almost three weeks into his life. He’s doing so well, and so is Tana. Thank you for the support that’s come flooding in, in so many forms. We’ve been wowed by it all. More to come. For now, sharing this conversation with my kiddo, with you.

But first, a poem written by my dear friend and mentor, Jim Murphy.

Love,

Andrew

---

Angus

The Depth and Width of Love
Does not know Time.
In just one second,
I have loved you Forever.

And, then, in equal fashion,
If I had to say goodbye
It would take forever
To release this love in my heart.

—Jim Murphy

Dear Valor,

They say write it all down, because you’ll forget, it goes so fast, you’ll want to remember. But already I can feel the futility of these words, trying to capture what it is to be with you in these first few weeks of your life. No amber can preserve this butterfly. This butterfly is flying, flying away, and all I can do is watch.

We’re cozied up in our winter nest. Haven’t left the house in almost three weeks. Getting snowed in, nowhere to go. Getting to know each other. Just being here together, in bed mostly. Holding you. You are, almost always, on one of our chests. We’ve done away with clothes. We are naked in the now.

It’s never been so easy for me to be-here-now, not since my own childhood. There’s nowhere else I want to be than right here with you and your mom. Even writing this letter to you from the other room feels a bit off. Like, why is this guy sitting in front of the computer right now when he could be gazing upon and caressing and sniffing and snuffling and cuddling and trying to stop himself from actually devouring the most perfect thing the world has ever made?

Because, they say you should write it down so you won’t forget.

Because, I want to make a window for you into this moment, in case you ever want to look through it from another distant moment someday.

Because, although I’m not sure what parts of my previous self survived the glorious apocalypse of your arrival, I do think I’m still a writer, and a writer’s gotta write.

Because, I want you to know, if you do read this, that no matter what’s to come for us, you began as an uncomplicated and unparalleled, utterly unprecedented joy. I want you to know that you will always be my joy, wherever we go on this father-son journey together.

This is an obliterating happiness. It’s cooking congee bowls for your mom and feeding her in bed while she feeds you. It’s massaging her legs, her feet, her hips, her shoulders. It’s singing to you, with her. It’s trudging through deep snow to the frozen pond in the woods out back with Rose at sunset. It’s bone broth hot chocolates with whipped cream. It’s the Our Lady of Guadalupe candle burning day and night. It’s sweatpants, the same pair, all day, every day. It’s laundry and the unexpected satisfaction of stain removal. It’s embracing the stains. It’s sweet mother’s milk and mustard yellow poo and creamy spit-up. It’s bathing you, and oiling you up with calendula and coconut. It’s looking at you, just looking at you. It’s all a delight. Even when you hit that pocket of honest-to-God inconsolable agony, thrashing in my arms at 3AM—not because you’re hungry (because your mom just fed you) and not because your diaper’s wet (because I just changed you) and not for any other reason, it seems, than the unbearable, heart-shattering fact that you are now incarnating into this realm of joys and sorrows—even then, in your deepest sorrow, it is my joy to be with you. Incomparable, unrivaled, pure delight.

I want you to know I wept when I had to change your first diaper, had to lay you on your back for the first time and, startled, a primal reflex kicked in like you were zapped with a current of electricity, some ancient code that jerked your arms and legs wide open, and suddenly you were falling through the void, alone. That’s how it looked. I wasn’t prepared for the sound of that scream. Had no defenses. Was laid low, just ravaged by the absolute vulnerability of you, savaged by my helplessness to spare you the truth.

Because the truth is, you are falling, and will always be falling, into and through this ungraspable, uncontrollable, unending mystery. We call this mystery, life. It’s what we do here on Earth. We fall, are falling. How we fall is how we live our life. Each of does it our own way. Every single one of us has that baby inside us, startled, grasping, crying out.

I was the one who cut your umbilical cord. “Welcome to Earth, my friend,” I said. “We’re so glad you’re here, son.” And so began your fall.

I see you learning how to fall. Fall with me. Fall with us. You’ll hush, suddenly. Your arms relax, open. Your whole body. You look slowly around, take it all in: my eyes, the play of the light, sights I cannot see. You seem to apprehend that we are falling together, not alone, and that it’s okay, it’s actually kind of amazing. And then, inevitably, I watch the weather change on your face, and some grain of sand has found its way into the soft oysterflesh of your consciousness—something…not quite right, something…terribly wrong—and then it’s into the breach once more, my friend, and time to fuss, to whimper, to wail and to rage. To live this life of falling.

Speaking of which, I can hear you just woke up. And I’ve been here way too long anyway, away from you. I do hope you’ll read this someday, so that these past two hours will end up being time we’ve spent together after all, across the years. Read it or not, I’m here with you, Valor. In waking and in sleep. In those clear moments when you see me, and in those storms when you can’t see me, feel me, holding you. Holding you, but also held with you. Falling together. Into the breach indeed.

Love,

Dad