Holding On

            Every day that goes by, I try to hold on to what little I have left of you. A smiley-faced cherub who reached out and caressed my face every morning, across the cool bed,  as the sun crept through the thin sheets that served as curtains in our bedroom. I wanted to keep the light out, but you ushered it in. You were my savior then. What I thought was a mistake, you grew into my greatest accomplishment. You would turn, curly lashes framing those sable eyes, and say, “Hi.” I sniffed in your Baby Magic skin and devoured your every move. I would talk to you as if you were my twenty-two year old equal, never using baby talk or considering you less than a little person who was my friend.

            When we finally moved away from my mom’s house into our own apartment, I tried to hold on to your baby teeth and hair, although at three years old they were already drifting away like tufts of dandelions in the wind. You wanted a big boy bed, so I borrowed an oak bunk bed and covered everything in Teen Titan decorations. That first night alone, you slept all the way through while I climbed in the bed beside you. I know those times would not last.

            When you came to me saying you wanted to play football, baseball, basketball, whatever, I wanted to hold on to the boy who sang Frankie Beverly and Maze songs with me. I knew you needed the influence of a man, so I relented. When they piled on top of you on the field, I had to be restrained. When you ran down the court the wrong way and hit your first shot in the opponent’s net, I cheered louder than was acceptable. When you missed the last pitch at the championship game and a parent cussed at you, I fought. You were here for me to protect, to cherish.

            I held you close every time you came to me crying from the window-sill, waiting for your father to pick you up. He never came. I would make up excuses for him, the man whose image was all upon your face. I would tell you how strong and brave you were. I spoke blessings over your life, and plead the blood of the lamb over you. We spoke confessions:” I am the head and not the tail. I am above and not beneath. I am a lender and not a borrower. I am blessed coming in and going out. Every need in my life is fully supplied and met by my Heavenly Father.” I held on to the belief that it would be this, and not your Earthly father’s heathen influence that would take reign over your life and structure your being.

            Then, I realized how far away you are when you did not deign to even leave your room when I came home from work. I would sit on the edge of your bed and watch you shoot man after man, soldier after soldier with a precision that would land you at the head of the marksmen class in military. You slashed through each screen, implanting knives into your opponents’ skull with a frenzy and joy I never see any more, expect when you are connected to the screen. I hear voices coming through the headphones, constantly attached to your head. Antlers to this steed I create, but can run with no more.

            You’re leaving in two years. I have so many hopes and dreams for you. There is so much I want to teach you, but you no longer hear me. If I tried to hold your hand in public, my skin would burn from the speed in which you extracted yours from mine. I try to hold to the idea that one day you’ll be back here with me. We’ll be like my mom and I, once enemies, now respected colleagues in this shared life. Not ashamed to be seen with me. Not afraid to hold on.