A recent writing prompt I was given asked me to write a letter to my son, telling him about the places I'd wanted to share with him. There are a million places I wanted to take him, but in the end, I focused on just one. The one we had already told him about. Here's what came out...
Dear Reed,
Adventure awaits.
That was the message we surrounded you with, before you were even born. There it is, emblazoned boldly on the wall above your crib. It’s woven into the fabric on the blanket I made for you, the one I sleep with every night now. You were meant to be our greatest adventure.
We wanted to travel the world with you. We would track our travels with pins on the big map in the kitchen. White for Daddy, red for Mommy, and new blue pins for Reed. We used to mark places we'd been as a family in black, but you would get all the glory for anywhere new, because you were our greatest adventure. And maybe we'd visit new places, or maybe we'd go back to the places we'd already been, but now we'd get to see them through your eyes.
We wanted to show you the world. Do you remember? We told you about the black sand beach in New Zealand, the one where Daddy and I talked and cried and decided not to give up hope just yet. We told you about waiting, remember? How hard it is to wait, sometimes. How we didn’t want you to have to wait for us. But we didn’t tell you enough about the beach.
That beach is different, Reed, than so many others.
We didn’t tell you about the way the sand was a different color than anywhere we’d ever seen. Jars of sand from all over the world sit in our bedroom, and you would have been able to look at all those jars and tell in an instant which one was from Piha. That sand is black, and it glitters. We’d tell you how soft it was underneath our feet. How you’d have to watch your step to avoid the little white curlicue shells scattered everywhere. When the waves would crash, our footprints would fill with water and reveal the shells, and then they would be swept away, so you couldn’t even tell anyone had walked there.
We could have climbed the rocky steps up to the lookout and found the perfect stick to use to write your name in the sand. How long would it have been before you could make it to the top of those steps without help? They were exhausting, and so steep, but I would have happily carried you. Then, you would have raced back down as I bit my tongue and called after you, “Not too fast!” I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.
I never wanted you to get hurt.
Back on the beach, I would show you how to use the stick to write your name in the sand, the way Daddy did after you were gone, on a different cold beach in Oregon. We would write your name - Reed Elliott Gorenstein - and watched the water slowly carry your letters out to sea.
We’d show you the rocks. Obsidian black, poking up out of the sand. We’d watch the water crash over those rocks and talk about how special they made the waves. Depending on where the water hits, every wave is different. Every wave is new. Droplets splatter off in unpredictable directions. We could have climbed to the top of the bigger rocks and huddled together, not wanting to get wet but giggling when the spray leapt up and splashed us. You’d hop from rock to rock, and when the gaps between were too big, I’d pick you up and hop for you.
We’d sit on that black sand beach, the three of us, and just listen. We’d listen to the deafening roar of the waves and hear the still silence that can only come from a place like that, hidden from the rest of the world. That’s the magic of that beach, Reed. We never saw another person there. It was just me and Daddy, and the idea of you. And we couldn’t wait to take you there.
Adventure awaits, we told you, and I suppose to die would be an awfully great adventure.
Maybe you’re sitting on that beach now, in your own happy version of our shattered universe. Waiting for us to be together, the way we wanted to be.
And someday, too many years from now, Daddy and I will go off on our own awfully great adventures. Our little rowboat in whatever world comes after this will gently drift onto that beach, and we will see you, smiling from ear to ear, ready to tell us of all the places you’ve been. Places we could never have shown you.
We will sit on that beach with you, Reed, together. The three of us, the way it should have been.
“I’ve been waiting for you!” you’ll call out. “You were right...waiting is hard!”
I’ll be speechless. So happy to finally see you again, just as perfect and beautiful as I remember. Older, yes. But still my baby boy.
“Are you ready?” you’ll ask. “Ready to hear about my adventures?”
And I absolutely will be.
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