Dearest stolen legacies, little birds. Life interrupted. Deepest fears come to light. Greatest loves come to light.
Wondering if I did you real harm, irrevocable disservice, or irrevocable good, has kept me up nights. For months after they reclaimed you, I could feel your heartbeats in the palm of my hand. More than a year passed before deep breaths were possible, before peaceful dreams were possible.
Somewhere out there, you both have reached adulthood. And there is a part of me still missing. There is a part of you still here. A tender scar that could rip open and bleed out any moment.
I’ve known people who can wax poetic about a path not taken. As for me, I’ll go to my grave unable to speak or write plainly about the path un-mapped before my eyes. Erased. Pulled out from under us.
The unfairness of it can still send me into a rage.
And then, I think of your faces. Those expressions of confusion, the tears, the shivers in your forced goodbyes. The slow, terrifying dawning of understanding that not even the most stubborn, most confident grown ups can beat a rigged system. And the rage gets paralyzed by shame.
God knows how much I miss you. I’ve railed at Him enough. Shouted. Screamed. God knows every day it happens — the days I can’t get out of bed because the weight of hating myself is simply unbearable. The weight of hating Him is a sledgehammer too heavy to lift and commit satisfying revenge.
Our lives wouldn’t have been easy together, of that I am sure. Even now. Nevertheless, we should have had it together. Saying I am sorry will never change anything. I can’t go back in time and change anything. All there is for me is a scrap of hope. Hope is a thing with feathers.
I hope that you both are okay. That you’ve learned to build happiness for yourselves. That you spread wings long unseen, that you left a path etched out by bureaucrats and made your own. And I hope deep down there rests the knowledge that you are adored from afar. For always, little birds. Always.