January 23rd, 1987
It was snowing when we woke up this morning to meet you for the first time. Your mother and I drove from our house to the hospital at 8 in the morning, and I’m not ashamed to admit I broke a few traffic laws on the way. As I told your mother, if they wanted to arrest me, they could do it in the parking lot. I wanted to meet you, wanted to hold you in my arms for the first time, see your little eyes, touch your hands. My son, my first child.
I just want you to know how much I love you, and I guess that’s what the letter is for, so you can be there at your birth, so the love that I’m feeling towards you can travel through space, through time, and through the many headaches and heartaches that time will dish out, and re-enter your heart in the future, to help you through all of these. I won’t be around forever, and I want you to have something of me to look back on, something for when the words I speak to you are fading away to your memory.
You were determined to come out today, and it didn’t take long for the doctor to get you out, though we did have to wait a little while before we could hold you. You couldn’t breath right. It’s ok, though, obviously you’re fine, but I have to admit I was afraid. I couldn’t imagine seeing you come into the world, fall in love with you, and then have you gone just like that.
I was the first to hold you, and I know growing up it may seem that I am a bad guy, or mean, or angry a lot, but I just want you to know, this moment, this day, that I love you, that I will always love you, and nothing will ever come in the way of that. Anything else is just to guide you to who I think you should be, who I know you can be, the best man you could possibly be. You are my son, and there’s nothing that can change that.