Hey little bird,
I've been remiss for a good long while since the last one, so let us do a quick timeline for frame of reference...
You're 2 years, 4 months old now. I'm working at Brick and Bourbon. It is a rainy November morning quite early, and the song that made me think to adopt again this idea is Poinciana, Live At The Pershing, Chicago, by Ahmad Jamal Trio.
Whatever this was supposed to be originally, it is this. A declarative assessment of my life with you, from my eyes. Firstly, I am in love with you, my little bird. It didn't need to be over two years for me to figure that one out. It has been hard though. Maybe these aren't the things parents should tell their children or maybe they are. You can decide for yourself how I have occurred to you from this.
Fear pangs my heart with bouts of love enduring and winning the fight. I struggle with success. I used to be carefree and easy about almost everything, and now I worry endlessly. I was at the grocery store with you, after a doctors visit and we waited for medicine, and I had $9 in my pocket. That's about all I had, in all. You looked at some cheap grocery store books on a rack while we waited, and you picked one out you really wanted. It was $5. I didn't get paid for 4 days. You held it in your hands. You picked out a snack. You held it tightly too.
We couldn't buy a ball on the way out, but you had a book and a snack and you're so happy, my little bird. You're so sweet and wonderful that when I assess my own life in the light I should see it I realize I don't care much, as long as I have your time as much as our time lets us.
So all dads go broke and worry a lot and work hard and feel sad but they're dads so that's the win.
You're the win, little bird. I'll be myself again only when I finally get to share it with you. On we go.
