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Letter to My Unborn Son: Narrative Essay
The world is full of re-used greetings and recycled grins, like secondhand birthday cards with the names scribbled out. We are obsessed with perfection because we want what we cant have and aim for what we cant achieve. People worship morality, while the saints look down and curse our names. Atheists drown their sorrows in holy water and flick bible pages in Church like they flick their cigarettes in a bar. Hypocrisy stains our food, taints our water, and poisons our air.
In a world so backward, I wont let my son live wrapped in pretension. Hell live a skeptic, a scarred human face upright and exposed. He wont be told to be perfect. Hell be told to be him. My son wont be like the others.
Ill teach him. Ill teach him life isnt a test, but an experience, and that you cant fail a memory. I wont force-feed him a conscience, or tattoo right and wrong across his existence like an ugly birthmark. Ill teach him its okay to crave recognition, to feed on approval, and to dream of popularity. That hes allowed to breathe love like a former smoker breathes secondhand smoke, if soft sticky affection is the only thing that coats his lungs. Ill teach him perfection is the ability to accept imperfection, and true courage is the courage to admit youre not courageous. I wont mold his beliefs, but give him the clay to shape his own views. His potters wheel may stop turning, and he may be left with a clumsy heap of opinions, but his hands wont stop shaping. I wont scold at his mistakes, but let my anger simmer gently until forgiveness brews. Hell learn the most painful thing can be a mirror, but he can tilt it to get his best angle, and if his eyes still dont sparkle the way others do, its because their eyes only sparkle when theyre looking at him.
Ill teach him falling is allowed, as long as he gets back up because the only scar that remains is the judgment from those who saw you hit the floor. Ill tell him if hes afraid to cry, stand outside and let the rain hide his tears. When his wife asks why he loves the rain, to spit and screams, cause Im not clean enough. Ill teach him his halo is imprinted on his soul rather than worn on his head. Virginity cant be bought and impurities exchanged. The only store that sells them is the heart, and there hell find a note from the Lord, out for eternity, see you in hell. If he turns that note over, hell find my own shady handwriting, God may have left you but I never will. Ill teach him hes not expected to be Jesus; hes allowed to run on fumes rather than walk on water. He can hang his head and not on the cross.
Instead of turning water into wine or feeding the five thousand, its okay to just sit, pissed and hungry. When the world is obsessed with obsessing over others, hell know its okay to obsess over himself.
When my boy enters the world, Ill cover his eyes and shade him from the light. The light will only dwindle the older he gets. A light that seeps into a soul like paint on cracked pavement, only to erode from lifes inevitable weathering. Hell ask why theres no light at the end of the tunnel, and Ill tell him hes already reached the finish.
My son will know hes no gift to this earth. Hell know hes my son.
Not perfect.
But mine.
Do you need this or any other assignment done for you from scratch?
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