One Boy Still Waits for His Dad

Every drop of tears. Every painful memory. Sometimes they make me want to give up hope.

There are moments when I feel done with living. Yet I think of my son, and I imagine his tears if I were gone. I cannot bear that image.

One little boy still hopes to see his father. He hugs me. He tells me: Dad, I love you.

Maybe those three words are enough for tonight.

Not money. Not accomplishments. Not a partner. Not success. Not even happiness.

And yet here I am, crying over things I cannot reach, longing for someone I cannot be with. I wonder why my heart is so consumed by what is missing when something precious is already here.

Maybe we become accustomed to miracles. We expect another hug, another morning, another chance, and forget how extraordinary they are.

The silence is deafening tonight. My heart searches for what it cannot find.

How do we become content with what we cannot have? Maybe contentment is not the disappearance of desire. Maybe it is learning that wanting something does not make everything else worthless.

I can miss someone and still love my son. I can grieve and remain grateful.

Earlier I met Zach walking at the park because he wanted peace. Perhaps peace is not obtaining everything I desire. Perhaps peace begins when desire stops deciding the value of what I already possess.

I still do not know the answer to every question about life.

But I remember two small arms and a familiar voice.

Dad, I love you.

Tonight, perhaps that is enough. Not forever, not an answer to everything. Just enough for one night.

And sometimes one night is all tomorrow needs from us.