My son is a fierce protector of the proletariat. His brain works in ways I cannot comprehend, and it’s no secret he’s always six steps ahead of me. To be honest, half the time I nod my head and pretend to know what he’s talking about. He is deep. He poses questions that make my brain twist in discomfort. My Bird has always been insightful and opinionated. He has impossibly high standards and incredibly little patience. I suppose it’s no secret whom he takes after. Ahem.
He’s 17 today.
He was not yet five when I started putting words in this tiny corner of the internet. This is his senior year of high school, and he and his cohort of kids have been robbed of so much. They will have many stories to tell, but none of them are mine to tell. I’m going to protect his privacy and not write more. But know this, Bird is the apple of my eye and the apple to my tree.
Happy Birthday! I love you to the moon and back again.