LETTER TO MY COMING SON

Baby don't you cry
Gonna bake a pie
Gonna bake a pie with a heart in the middle

— Baby Don't You Cry, by Quincy Coleman, from the movie Waitress

My dear baby,

You’ll be born when the magnolias are blooming. Softest petals of milk white, grand in size, budding and opening in all their splendor amid waxy leaves. There’s a small magnolia tree in the yard behind our house which caught my attention the other day. I notice growing things. I never realized how many growing things I notice and name until your father noticed and named this trait in me.

The other day I was baking, and an image came into my head of teaching you how to crack an egg and separate the white from the yolk. I remember watching my mom carefully yet quickly pour the contents of a cracked egg back and forth between the halves of the shell, letting the white spill into a bowl until just the yolk remained. To me it looked like juggling and magic, so deft and sure in a way I felt I could only hope my child’s hands might one day be. I imagine showing you this trick, and watching your hands grow surer over time.

Your dad’s hands are strong and gentle. They hold mine, carry things for me, wipe away my tears, and wrap warm around me. They type code on a computer, and I picture you sitting on his lap and watching. I imagine what he’ll teach you: development or piano or photography or chess, seeing what interests you. He and I have talked about how neither of us are good at sports, yet we’d like to give you the chance to try. With surprise and delight we will cheer you on if you are athletic and competitive in that way. How many possibilities lie in front of you, little one. How many dreams which will unfold at just the right time, revealing themselves like a sacred gift; like magnolia blossoms.