My beloved Henry,
I began writing this on March 22, 2020; Your mother’s suggestion after I broke down the previous day trying to tell her to make sure you know how much I loved you. That sounds very final, doesn’t it?
I am, as of yet, not sick.
2020. Just saying it aloud is ominous. Will mentioning this year in the future bring on a sense of dread. A cautionary tale? Or will everyone just move on like nothing happened? I feel like it will be an Event. The defining moment of a generation. Right now kids coming of age are called Generation Z or Zoomers. What will your genertion be called? Covidians? Coroners? The 19? Visonaries (20/20, get it? I am a genius, by the way.)?
You are 5 this year. 5 years old. How can a 5 year-old understand any of this.
Anyway, I am not yet sick, but I think I will be. I think almost everyone will be. Our governments, both national and local, are not acting fast enough, which for you will be history, perhaps a textbook case of failures in leadership. So a lot of people are going to get it, and I am near-certain one of them will be me. And if I do, I do not expect to survive it. I am 50 this year, which elevates my risk, and I have had issues with my lungs (bronchitis every year!) since having a bad case of pneumonia when I was 12.
So it goes.
As I sit here in my office writing this, I can hear you on the other side of the wall, exhorting your mother to find a different show on Netflix (do they still have Netflix in the future?). Your small-but-somehow-also-loud, piping voice cuts through sheetrock as if it is not there, and the sound fills my heart. It is a Sunday, and we got up this morning and spent 5 hours playing video games (Minecraft and World of Warcraft). We sat together building houses in caves and a railway system to connect our villages. Our constructions are highly bipolar. Your half uses every Minecraft block in whatever way pops into your head. You built me a house made of TNT, for instance; but to your credit, you did promise never to actually blow me up with it. My half is made of light colored stone blocs in the brutalist style. The contrast is beautiful. You pursue your vision so fiercely, with such purity, that my spirit soars. Afterward. we made troll characters and rode steampunk motorcycles through the deserts Durotar.
When we play, or read, or watch TV, or build Mincraft or Lego, you always try to occupy the same space as me. You lean on me at almost all times. I wonder if that touch is as comforting for you as it is for me? You show me each thing you make, find, or imagine with an intense joy and exuberance. You make something with Lego bricks, usually using 7 different colors, and you hold it up and proudly tell me what it is. Through your eyes, I can see it too. Your unfettered imagination rubs off one me, allowing me to see what my 50 year- old self cannot. You enhance every aspect of my existence.
I am forced to spend so much time away from you. I know you don’t understand now, but I hope someday you will. I hope your memories of me are the times we spent together, and not the void of my absence. Please know that every day when I head to work, I would rather stay home with you. No exceptions. In a just world, this would not be the case, but the world I live in is not just. It is broken. I am hoping there’s a better one for you.
I hope that if this thing takes me, you can forgive me; for the parts of your childhood I already missed, and the parts I will miss after I am gone. I hope you will grow into the strong, thoughtful, and kind man I know lies within you. I hope you will find happiness, and that you and your mother can make a good life in the aftermath.
I hope a lot of things. But mostly I hope you get through this, with or without me.
And I hope you know how much I loved you. There are no words that can capture it. No language conveys the beautiful ache in my chest when I look at your face, when I hear your voice, when I feel your warmth as you lean back on me when we watch something on TV.
I hope you know all this now, but I am desperate that you never forget it.
And in case I do not get the chance…
I love, Henry.
Dad