for Adam

Once, you looked to me
as if I were the keeper of all answers,
the mapmaker of your world.
Mom would know, you said,
and in that moment, I held the stars for you.

I remember the beach
how you ran with a stick raised like a sword,
a fearless general chasing seagulls
as if the very wind obeyed you.
You were certain then
your feet knew the sand,
and the sky opened beneath your command.

Now you live in another world
a life apart, shaped by your own hands.
I have no place there, nor do I ask for one.
I do not seek to judge,
only to listen
to know the rhythm of your days,
the contours of the thoughts you carry.
But your silence is a door closed,
and I press my hand against it,
feeling only the coldness of wood.

There are other children,
and I love them with every breath.
But beneath each smile,
a shadow lingers
the space you left behind,
the ache that asks quietly,
How is he?

You always knew more than the world could explain.
Even as a boy, you looked at life with the eyes of a philosopher,
and once told me
This world is hell.
How I wished, then, to cradle that thought in my arms,
to soften it,
to carry the weight for you.
But you were never one for softening
you spoke with gravitas, even at six,
as if the truths of the universe were already engraved
on your heart.

Now, you stand on your own ground,
and I watch from a distance,
loving you in the quiet spaces
where memory meets longing.
I do not ask for much
only a word,
only the smallest glimpse of the man you are becoming.

If I could send a whisper through the years,
it would say this:
You are still my son, and I carry you always
in every moment, in every breath.
Speak to me when you can—
there is nothing here but love, waiting,
patient as the tide.