Only one more year is left.
One more year. I have your lifetime of memories stored away, and you have your own memories of the past years until now, and we share many of those same memories. If I could go back through the years, I know what I would do and say differently. It’s not that there is guilt or regret — though I have indeed made mistakes — but a longing for more time. The years do fly by.
So with this year that is left, the next twelve months, I am resolved to fill in the cracks: the words not spoken, the many words not spoken. The many things I have left to say to you.
Nothing else is as important—outside duties can wait. Other noises, other requests, will surely beckon for attention.
It is bittersweet. I am genuinely excited and happy for this phase. It is what diligent parents plan for: the launching of their children. I eagerly anticipate what the future holds. But I will miss you. And all the words that you have spoken, the words that you will be saying, the memories that will become a part of you that I will have no knowledge of. It is fine; it is the way it is meant to be, and it is good.
But until then, I hope to tell you all that I have not yet told you, all that I need to tell you, words that have yet been unspoken.