Once a year.
I hold you tight, my son. Probably too tight, but I need the strength of my love to soak into your soul, and my arms must absorb the love I know you have for me. I memorize this moment.
As you grew from boy to man, child to addict, I had to let go of the things I could not change and the things that weren’t mine to control (after trying for so long to change and control them). I had to let go before the ugly words and behaviors slithering in on the underbelly of addiction did irreparable damage to the relationship that had once been so good. Or killed the boy I was trying to save.
My love is all I have left to give you.
(That, and one too-tight hug for each of the past seven Aprils.)
I hold you tight, my son. Wrapping you in my arms, I feel the power of our dusty bond. A silent exchange of hope and strength and eternalness, of a love that has been bruised but never broken. I kiss your cheek, leaving a lipsticky mom mark, and now, again, I must let you go. I open my arms — empty but now full — arms which will keep you snug and close to my heart, until next time. Next year.
In letting go of you, Joey, I’m holding on tight to so much.
In letting go of you, I’m letting you know that I believe in you. I believe you will find your way back.
Once a year.
I’m keeping your place warm.
Letting Go is NOT the same thing as giving up.
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