a dozen years

Dear Tucker,

This year, spots that should be bright have been masked by the knowledge that they might feel different in concrete and upsetting ways. You spent your eleventh birthday swimming at Shark's Cove, and the entire time since basically adjusting to the circumstances of a pandemic.

Twelve now, you've known for a number of years about navigating the edges of distance, about degrees and depth of separation. You understand that terrible and terrific spring from the same source, that we get to decide how to react either way. 

One of the things you wanted to do today was mix chemicals, to turn water blue with methylene and light manganese on fire. You have always, always been curious, the most powerful mechanism for learning. It's no wonder you know so much about so much - from how to construct a caltrop to which letter of the alphabet doesn't appear in a single state name. You consume books the way you consume food, with voracity. You also seem to know that it's hard to learn anything if you think you're right all the time.

You are fortunately not too deep in the sneer and loathing phase. Once in awhile you'll take a walk with me, and nearly every night you sit and visit with your dad, discussing things like D&D adventures and quantum physics. Please don't ever stop talking to us! 

The first thing you do when you come out of your room most mornings is offer me a hug, and the first thing I do is whisper a prayer of gratitude and then wonder when you snapped on a longer set of legs.

You are a young man of uncommon sensitivity and serious substance. It feels like holy work, attaching myself to someone like you, only to know my job will be to watch you go. I hope you always feel at home in yourself, and know that you'll always, no matter what, have a home with us.

I love all that you will be, Tucker, and everything you are.

Mom