Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist
And I write to you, Robin, on the date you turn six months old. That which was just your random sound and movement has become pattern, and the patterns have developed gradually into personality; into the broad toothless smiles of your awakenings and the profound sighs of your exhaustion, the little songs you sing to yourself in a language that still, for the time being, remains your own. I am fascinated by the science you practice, the full exploration of visual and tactile that inevitably leads to your mouth, by the completeness of your curiosity. I see the best parts of myself and your mother in your responses to the everyday, and I see the faint outlines of the things that are going to throw us for a complete loop. I am eager for your next evolution and unready to let go of your status quo.
If I were to write at this moment that I couldn’t believe six months had just gone by, it would be both a universal truth and a personal fabrication. Yes, on the one hand, there is something that continues to be slightly unreal about the very existence of you, about the speed of your development, the ongoing understanding that you are another human being and have been so for a half-orbit around the sun. But on the other hand, I’ve been fortunate enough to have spent much of my time near you for the past six months, and the act of observing you has taken on its own time-stamped physical form. My love for you is a solid thing and it is the amount of love for you that my heart could possibly have amassed in six months. It’s easy to believe that it’s been six months. It already feels like I’ve loved you for my entire life although I’ve only had the chance to love you for the entirety of yours.
See you tomorrow, and watching your tomorrows; Dad.
Current Music: Sinead O’Connor, “You Made Me the Thief of Your Heart”