This is for both of you.
It's nothing you haven't seen before, another letter from your mom, another bunch of words telling you that you make up the very best parts of me and that I can't imagine the world before you, that separate life of other things that I thought were important.
And I know that when you see this, you might roll your eyes, smile a bit and say, "What did you do now, Mom?" with a sense of indulgence well beyond your years. Sometimes, when I can't hold back and I try again to write about the way you changed the meaning of love and life for me, our roles reverse, and I'm the child with a picture for the fridge, these words that I pick up again and fail at, again.
Because I can't write all of the things you are. I can't say all of the ways I hope for you or make your eyes see the girl I was before you, so you understand how much better you've made me, just by existing.
The world is better because you breathe and move in it. And all I want from you, all I've ever wanted is for you to see what I see, to recognize the miracle you are, and to fulfill the promise your existence makes of a better world.
In other words, be the you God created you to be, as loudly and as colorfully as you dare, make horrible mistakes and get back up, and know that somewhere, high in the stands, I'm watching, shielding my eyes against your quiet brightness, waiting for you to amaze this world by simply, forcefully being yourselves.