My sweet boy. So often I sit down to write you love letters. To share about how much I love your laugh, your imagination, your kindest heart. I admire you more than anyone. I am so humbled to be your Mom. But each and every time I try to put pen to paper, the tears begin to fall, and I end up curled up on your bed, my palm on your heart as you sleep, smelling your hair and whispering how much I adore you.
We make it through the mud.
One step at a time.
We make it.
She whispered into the tops of their heads, brushing the hair out of their faces with her fingertips.
"Tomo mi mano," she sang, as they walked out into the sacred waters together.
I didn't look it up to translate. I didn't have to. The act of being held, of holding, is universal.
Mysteries are not to be solved: The eye goes blindwhen it only wants to see why. -Rumi
