When you were little, you told me you wanted to be an astronaut and an architect when you grew up. I asked why two careers, and you explained that you really wanted to go to the moon but after you got there, you wanted to be able to build us each a home so we would always be close to each other. I loved your sense of adventure.
When you were little, you asked me what happens to us when we die. I said I didn’t know but that there were several theories and then I explained a few of them, including reincarnation. You decided that was the one you wanted to believe. Then you told me you knew that in all of our lives, we were always family. As far back as the dinosaurs, I was the mom T-Rex and you were my baby. I loved your imagination.
When you were little, some kids in your class made fun of another child because he gave his mom – an educator in the after-school program – a kiss hello. You looked at the kids laughing and then at the little boy being teased and instantly made your position clear. You informed them that the only thing we have in life is our family. Always. You dared any of them to say they would turn their backs on their own moms. None of them spoke. None of them laughed anymore either. I loved your integrity.
You’re not little anymore. Today, you are graduating from high school. You don’t want to be an astronaut or an architect anymore either. Instead you’ll be studying English Lit at college this fall. Gone is the little boy who believed we were a dinosaur family once.
You’re not little anymore. You’ve gone from being a little brother to being a big brother. As much as you’ve grown, though, there are still some things that haven’t changed at all. You still stand up for what you believe in. You still speak your mind.
You’re not little anymore, but I still love your sense of adventure, your imagination and your integrity. I love that you want to write. I love that you still prioritize family. I love the little boy you were and the young man you’ve become. I love you. Always.