Bark

I've reflected a lot on my life over the years. Yesterday I ran my fingers over bark, comparing the texture from one tree to the next, and I thought: life is not much different. We all weather it differently, some of us with tough exteriors, rough skin and callouses, while others appear gentle and smooth and less...worn. There's always more than what meets the eye, and what we hold inside is always more precious than what's visible. Always.

I'm sitting sideline, trying my best not to interfere too much, as I watch my son grow and develop into this person all his own. Quirks, humor, motivation, and annoyances that he did not get from me or his father - they are unique to him alone, and I love exploring these parts of him, probing deeper into his individualism. I am broken as a mother that wishes to keep this perfect human to myself for all of my life with the knowledge that he is quickly gaining independence that steps further and further away from his parents.

I will always love him and he will always know that I do. Perhaps this is the one thing he needs to know as he evolves: that he is loved, and cherished, and always has a place to call home. As he stands against the storms of life, his bark will form. I have no control over that texture, it is all his own, but I hope I can influence what he holds precious inside.