The belief in you is salvation for a soul left crooked by worry and fault. The twenty hour wakings leave heavy stones on hearts beating with ever more labor that you – somehow and someway – avoid the haunt of misery. It’s not all sadness. There are smiles and laughter poking through the blanket of grim; poppies in a field of death, strange anomalies bubbling from the cursed soil of cracked lineage. May you grow tulips. May your ground be fertile and your hope a constant vernal welcome. The sun shines and you swim in its light with a glee that must live on. May joy be your rule. May where you came from be incidental and no cause for lessening hope. Run to the sun, little one. Devotion to your happiness is the work of your mother and father, but its your responsibility. The choice to live in Spring rather than in Winter is yours. The map you follow to the sun’s warmth is drawn from mistakes made by parents lost in a sea of their own reckonings, the ink of their failure still drying. Forgive them and let your sun thaw their frozen love.
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