Letter Seven

Dear Luke,

It's been a little longer than two months since I've last written you a letter. Why, exactly? I keep turning that question over in my mind. Sometimes there is a kind of mechanism that seems to prevent me from examining too closely that which I hold precious. "Blinding fear" is probably a good way to describe it. Sometimes I am shut down by the very idea of writing down the things that you do and the way that my heart swells dangerously when you do them. It seems very backwards, doesn't it? Love is about opening oneself up and acting for others. Since you've been around I have learned a great deal about myself, and one of the things I've discovered, less than proudly, is how very terrified I am of loving those closest to me. I can do it as long as I don't think about it too much: a remnant of the notion of the thought of losing you sends me running, switches off my power like the button on a vaccuum cleaner. A clean break, until upon closer examination it turns out that having to say aloud "if I ever lost you" will make me dissolve into tears.

You're so small and so much wiser than I thought you would be. I am afraid of the mistakes I've already made, the mistakes I will continue to make. I want to be perfect for you. You deserve it, my sweet boy.

As I write this you and your dad have returned from a birthday party (a headache kept me away). You rushed in, arms straight up in the air, saying Mama! There were so many friends! Your very essence!

I have to sign off now. One of the favors you received at the party is a tiny soft soccer ball. Play patch, Mama! Play patch, Daddy! you keep saying. Catch? I ask. Yes! Play patch! you say.

So we will. Your dad and I will play patch with you.

Love,
Mama