When he was born I remember his bright beautiful eyes and creative infant structure. So pure, untouched like paper.
A gift so Precious that every night I prayed on my knees, that God would keep.
He was so wondrous and so tightly fused with every dream a seeder could imagine of-the mind of an artist, the heart of a young eagle eager to fly the winds of life. I knew that he would soar into these clouds of greatness, but every time I created a line of opportunity he found those lines to be useless.
Seeing this behavior as a young child, laid upon his belly like the act of a blissfully ignorant serpent, tempted to take the sin his ancestors had cursed onto his future.
He was ready to be lifted, his hands like the hands of a cripple; ready to lift on their rigid palms, shake full motions, arms like the wings of a paper plane in takeoff. I helped him stand lightly; watching him prepare for his First flight.
Balancing his actions, slowly rising high onto the horizons, he was there like a blazing sun. But, he soon realized that all things that go up must come down.
That dear gravity hit him so hard, a turbulence which had knocked him off this cycle I had written for him- tumbling into a movement of rebellion, extending his stage of adolescences.
I knew that this would happen, in his very eyes I had seen a mirror of my reflections, double objects of symmetry, but already being that shape I knew that I had to help tear away my baggage From his image.
This here is my creation; this here is my paper, this is my origami, this here is my son.
And I be damned if I let him parish from the skies onto the earth
so fly on son, fly on.