Letter Writing Series, Day Seven

Dearest three of three, furrowed brow, sweaty curls, puzzle-solver, builder extraordinaire. Hunter, fisher, father. Distance.

Today is your birthday. I remember your first. How is that one teeny human could bring such joy? Four decades later, just a few miles from that spot we found you squalling, fists in the air, face puckered … how is it you’ve managed to grow so far away?

That first time I witnessed mountain mists sliding downward, the sky looking as if it would follow until it met the road, you came to mind. In every stone, every reptile, every insect song in flight. What a shame we never got to share a road trip. It’s not too late, right?

The timbre of your laugh is missed. That furrowed brow. Eyes like a wood pond at dusk. I’ve got wishes for you that could fill these rooms, climb the walls and overflow. Here’s just a few: turn around, look in my direction and wave. Let me hear your voice again. Let me hear that laugh.

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