A birthday letter to my son, on the morning he turned six.

they say the heart is the mother
and the father both,
the first of everything that breathes,
and whoever knows the heart
knows a spring that does not stop giving.

my son, you are the spring.
before you came
i did not know
the water i was carrying.

you arrived on the eighth day of july
in the year of the mask,
the year we hid our faces
and asked each other,
whether the world was ending.

it was not ending.
it was you,
beginning.

you were the gift given to us
and we gave you back to God
the way you give back
what was never only yours to keep.
still, every morning,
he hands you to me again.

so today i will tell the truth.
if you have looked at my life
and seen hope in it,
or something like awe,
or water everywhere you turn --

know this:
the river is a child.
the river turned six today.
come with your jug.
come and dip.
there is more than enough.

i could name the ones
who stole my heart before you,
but you are the one
who holds my breath,
the plain and holy breath,
the one i did not know was mine
until you needed it.

so we celebrate.
not because the years are safe --
they are not.
but because you keep becoming,
and becoming,
and every version of you
is worth the singing.

six years.
i want six hundred more,
each one lived your way,
in the one life
you were so clearly made for.

happy birthday, my son.
keep becoming.
the water is yours.

Keep this.