Forty Years ago I gave birth to you, but when I look at the cherished photos of my precious baby, wearing your onesie, sitting like a little potentate among your many first year Christmas gifts, your chubby face awed by the discoveries at the end of a
Toy phone truck, or see the magical charm in your huge grin and twinkling eyes, a lump the size of the Grand Canyon forms in my throat.
I love you so much, but life has not been kind to us, has it My Son? Somewhere along the way you stopped wanting me in your life, in your thoughts, and in your heart.
I made mistakes...monumental ones...ones I look back on and more often than not still can't figure out how I could have done differently.
My time is dwindling. When I look out at the world of today, it rivals the increasing thickening of my aging skin. I kept hoping we'd find a bridge and move beyond the inadequacies I brought into being your mom...but some strands cannot be unraveled from the massive ball of tattered hopes and dreams they cling to.
There's this break inside me silently bleeding into my soul with each passing day, and even though I have tried finding a common ground, I have to admit and accept the defeat
growling like an angry, untamed beast between us.
I love you my son. None of the deep fodder existing between us has changed that, but with my life inching its way to my
final hurrah, it is with a heavy,
so very heavy heart, I must accept you are lost to me until we are both beyond the veil where all the inconsequential is stripped away and
love is all that matters.
I don't know if you love me...I DO know you hold me in enmity...but I hope beneath the roiling disdain you have for me, a spark of the love we shared when you were
My Little Man still exists.
So on this, your fortieth birthday, I want, no need to say, I am sorry I only taught you to hate me, and I wish you love, joy, contentment, and peace.
Happy Birthday, Son.
Love You Forever and Beyond,
Mom
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