Dearest mother

You and I have our differences; our hearts trail poles apart as we distance ourselves to do separate things. Now we walk with a different air, speak a different speech, and live such different lives, when once I had been so eager to copy every gentle word you say.

And yet, so different but in very delicate ways alike, we wade through the same world that measures our worth through the menial things we don’t care about. We drive through the same traffic. Eat the same food. Live, and dream, and pray for days that’d be filled with rain. Life, so full with life, always so close but always out of our reach.

And maybe, because of this, I’d say there is reason enough to never be at odds. I go my own way as I gradually depart from your care, entering into my own. My world is growing fast and it is reaching far to places from stories, but it hasn’t really left where it truly began. One day, when you play your songs on the piano, somewhere far, but somehow near, you will hear my fingers play your songs for you.

My soul came from you and it sings just as strongly as yours has. My heart sings wildly for things I am passionate about just as it has with yours. So in the moment of the hot, do not forget that to me, you are my mother and all that is deeply good and kind in me stems from you. Know that despite it all, despite my terrible indifference and distant demeanor, you will still see it in my eyes, all the questions I long to ask, all the music I want to play, and all the love I still have for you.

Happy birthday mama. Your son, Myles.



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