The Weight of my Son

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My son stands in the surf regarding the horizon. His face is calm as he receives the waves, the wind, the sun. The lip of the ocean kisses his toes, embraces his ankles. He looks so small against the stretch of sand, the girth of the Atlantic, the enormity of the horizon. But there he is. Two legs, two arms, strong torso, blonde hair short but still tousled by the breeze. He is a piece. A piece smaller than the world but larger than the grains of sand under his toes. A part of the whole. He has touched the Earth, tasted its salt, felt its caress. He is my world wrapped in the blanket that Mother Earth provides. He is strong. He is smiling. He is mine. He is hers. He is here.  He has yet to make his mark, to consider his steps. For now he runs, he kicks, he plays, he breathes. He is free. I watch him in wonder and envy, remembering the safety that freedom provides before the reality and the worry and the routine colored my view of the same vista. He stands singular and becoming. A promise I made to the world. One day, many, many years from now, when he is grown and gone, the world will be older and different in some small way because of him. And somewhere, tumbling about in the ocean, there will be a few grains of sand that remember the weight of my son.

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