Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Hey Honey,

    Dear Erik,

    Dear Lovely Wonderful Boy/Man/Child/Sweetie,

    How do I start a letter to my best first strong and immensely loved son?

    I am sitting here in my little kitchen with the view over the ice plant back yard, through the neighbor’s artfully pruned trees to the ocean at the end of the street. It is overcast gray. Fog that will dissipate by noonish to reveal the bright blue sky that is always there.

    June gloom. It’s called. Earlier, when I crept out the kitchen door in my bathrobe and slippers to pluck blueberries for breakfast, the world was liquid soft, shimmer, slow, vibrant, refreshed.

    I’ve never thought of myself as someone who enjoyed damp. But this morning I could almost hear the worms plowing through the moist clay earth, the bird song carried on droplets, the pearls of trembling water cradled by the blue gray leaves of the blueberries whispered happiness.

    I missed you. I remembered you. Building forts and finding frogs. Creating community wherever you went. I thought of art nights at home with you. Your brilliance and kindness and talent. Your humor and stories. Your jokes.

    While cleaning and rearranging the kitchen yesterday, I found and put on display a small vase I painted on one of our trips to the pottery paint place in Sebastopol.

    This morning I looked up at it and thought about that place and time. And you. When we went to pick up our fired pottery treasures, your work was proudly displayed in the front window of the shop.

    Remember?

    The owner – a man – came bustling over, thrilled to discover who had painted the masterpieces. He was surprised to see not an adult with years of painting lessons under his belt, but you, a handsome, young composed man/boy whose talent fairly oozed from his pores, who created beauty with seemingly little effort, who saw the world with fresh eyes and could interpret that vision for the rest of us to view.

    The owner was surprised and gratified to meet the creator of such work. The best he’d seen in his many years at the shop. The man glowed with excitement.

    I remember you.

    Your beauty and talent. The many gifts that have been bestowed upon you. They have been patiently waiting to help you create another phase of your life. Allow it and trust in the calling that has always been yours to make beauty and share it with the rest of us who sorely need and want to see it.

    I love you.

    Mom
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.