{i love & hate you all[

We try, don’t we? We come to this point, each of us in turn. We come and we try. We don’t know what we are or who we want or who wants us. We don’t know how we got here or how to get away. Honestly, we don’t even know where ‘here’ is. But we try. We try to get them to understand. We try to understand what they want. We try to understand who they think we are. What we should have done. Who we should have been.

And failing those… we try to run away.

But we don’t want to. And we aren’t sure. We scream at ourselves that the best course is to leave, to escape the pain, that we shouldn’t be here, can’t make this better, that we aren’t needed here… aren’t wanted here.

We just want to know. We want to feel alive. Want to feel wanted. Sometimes we think we are. We think we understand. Perhaps they understand. We try so hard, and yet… and yet here we are. Wanting to run away.

We get blind-sided one day. It could be nothing. It is probably nothing. We try so hard. We want things to be better. But then we don’t know. Maybe this is better? Or are we fooling ourselves? Is it just the same unimportant mess as it always has been? No.. it has never been unimportant. Everything we are is right there. Every part of us is right there. Right out in the open. Not for everyone. Not for anyone. But for them, it is right there.

But we fear. When there is nothing, we fear we screwed up. When there is something, we fear that we aren’t quite correct. But mostly, we fear when we don’t know. When there is nothing. We are blind-sided by the nothing.

So we try. We try as we have tried. We have left ourselves open. And once we don’t know what to do, when we don’t know what is. It is then that we try to run.

We don’t want to run… but we just might.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
          My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
          When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh I would resign
          This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
          Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men--
          I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
          Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
          Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
          To flee away and be at rest.

Lord Byron

~ Christopher]

You were great out there today. I was never into baseball as a kid, lived too far away from people, but you play right field like you were born for it. Of course your uniform was a disaster before the 3rd inning. You don’t have to dive for every ball, you know. Your mom spent a lot of time getting that uniform to be white as the day it was new. Ha! Yeah, I don’t know why she bothers either. Great grab in the 5th. You should have seen the look on their coach’s face when you snagged that easy triple right out of the air. That hitter was built like a tank, but it didn’t even matter, did it? Power doesn’t mean anything if they can’t get on base.

Keep diving, son. Keep diving.

You were great out there today.

But running. Now running, that’s where your passion lies. You used to give your mom a fit time when you take off down the street. You just take off down the street and end up at some neighbor’s house blocks away like it was nothing. You know your mom has a whole network of spies amongst the neighbors, don’t you? Probably never crossed your mind that she would worry. You’re old enough to take care of yourself, after all. I know, I know. You had a birthday in December. Ten is certainly a mature age. Double digits even! But your mom always knows where you are. The neighbors for a mile in every direction know to call her if you show up unannounced. She loves you very much. I get texts almost every day during the summer detailing your travels while I am at work. I hear that Mrs Evans makes the best lemonade in the neighborhood. Guess that is why you frequent her home more than others. I know you wait until right before dinnertime to come back so you have an excuse to run all the way home. So much energy! So vibrant! You told me that Mr Andrews tells you to slow down every time you fly past his front porch, a flury of movement and joy that God has reserved for youth. Don’t worry about him. I’ll talk to him. He just wishes he still had that joy.

Keep running, son. Keep running.

Running my fingers over the Dec 9th, 1998 etched in the stone marker, I place the flowers I brought on the ground, and rise from kneeling.

I love you, son.

I turn and begin the endless journey back to my car.

~ Christopher]