Glad About the Good Times

Mariana,

It has been 15 weeks since I've last seen you in person. I'm still in Chicago and you're in Sacramento. I miss you so much Marianabean.

It is especially on Sundays like these when I'm winding up for another week of school and work when I wish that I could take you to a park or laze the day away strolling through a museum.

I realize that I could very well ride my bike all along the lake until I reach these places, but even with a picture of you clutched to my heart, I would feel my isolation all the more sharply amid so many families. I could listen to my music, but I know that I would instead allow myself wonder at these people, these children. I could guess at what kind of child you are becoming so far away.

I could guess at what kind of father you will know me as.

Instead, I wonder these things without the stimuli of people. Instead, there are the books which are only partly finished; the end of ink lining and marking the pages telling where I finished reading last. In some ways I wonder if this won't be a way for you to spend time with me on some rainy day.

The only books which my parents would write any sort of notes in were the Watchtower books which will probably remain forgotten in boxes if they aren't completely thrown away. I never looked through these books because they were church books--it was work enough to be at church three times a week for a little kid. Instead I would peruse the large almanac and picture books. I'd boot up the computer box (which ran Windows 95) and read through a couple of encyclopedias on cd-rom.

There was never any personal touch to these books other than that they mostly belonged to your grandfather. I realize that these books will likely remain too dull for you to want to look through. Still, I delight in the idea that your eyes may one day fall upon these pages.

Maybe we'll talk about them. Maybe not.

It's such a funny thing being away Mariana. I live off of pictures and videos of you, and I speak to your mother, grandmother and auntie Bina when you're around and I hear you walking around and talking. Mostly you babble, but you have become more eloquent in pointing out dog dogs and telling them to "stop!" barking for instance. Even from the low quality of images and sound, you never cease to amaze me, Mariana. What is strange, however, is forgetting that the bulk of my pictures have quickly become outdated! You look so different as you grow into your toddler self: your hair is growing longer, your voice is blossoming into speech, and you're one to keep up with as you confidently step around the place.

I still miss you. I think about you so much and wonder so much about our future. I become worried that I will forever resign myself blindly to the future, though I know that this will not be the case. Still. It's scary thinking that I'll come back and simply shrug.

I recently had my 21st birthday out here Mariana. It's a strange thing too, because it is perhaps the first time I've ever felt different on a birthday. I've never before been filled with so much hope at being a year older. I don't know why it took this birthday to feel more like an adult but I can take a guess.

I don't know how small you will be Mariana, but between your mother and I, your height will probably linger within us, even when you're finished growing. You are growing taller, stronger, and more beautiful by the day, but I'm sure that we'll go a long time hearing that you are small or petite, etc. Hopefully you won't be hurt by this because you have had a far greater impact on all of us. Keep in mind that I say this from over 2,000 miles away. I envy so much those that see you more often than I, yet remain appreciative that you have so many people who love and care for you. I appreciate the efforts taken to care for you where I have been unable to fill in. Imagine that: a little bean like you gathering all these people together for your sake!

That's power mammas! That's love.

I feel like I have finally been able to step out of shoes too small for my feet. My soul ached the way feet scrunched unto themselves with the desperation of feeling so young and without control of my life. While I am constrained by another year away, I am not bound in any prison: for all that I miss you Mariana, I feel certain changes in me perhaps would otherwise not have occurred.

A friend told me that "your children are not you, they are not their parents." I acknowledged that there is no way that I can declare who you will be or what you will do in life, but I have many hopes for you.

With the end of my third year at University several weeks away, I wonder how I can help you get to this height.

I wonder how much you will trust me. I wonder how well we will understand each other someday.

I wonder I wonder I wonder.

I miss you so much Mariana.

Here's a kiss goodnight from your papa, all the way in Chicago.