Letters to my Son

The other night Teddy crawled into my bed and woke me up. He had just reread the letter I wrote for him on the occasion of his confirmation last year. He received a bundle of letters written by loved ones during his retreat. All of them poignant. I read them. I know.

I write my kids lots of letters. I write them hoping that one day they will find comfort in my words, or confidence in the level to which they are cherished. I imagine them being taken back to a memory by way of the stories I share. I write them because I express myself most vulnerably and authentically when I put pen to paper. I write them hoping that one day after I am gone, they will read them and they will hear my voice and feel my love. That night Teddy read my letter after a rare and difficult heart to heart we had, and it touched his heart.

He woke me because he felt compelled to tell me some important things and he knew if he waited until the morning light he'd lose his courage or conviction. His words melted my heart. And the fact that he turned to one of my letters in a pivotal moment of uncertainty is like winning the lottery to my epistolary nature...to my mama heart.

We snuggled side by side in the dark where words and a few tears flowed freely. The lack of light makes it so much easier to bear your naked feelings. It's an interaction I'll never forget, and yes, I'm writing it down here so that just in case Ted ever needs a little help remembering, he'll have it.