Simple. Clear. Defined lines. Your little warm body pressed against mine as you took in your nourishment. Embedded in our dyadic relationship, I gave. You received. And in this receiving, you gave back to me. I was your giving tree. You were my baby.
Seventeen years on. You are nearly a man. The relationship holds space for ambiguity. I give. I ask you to give too. My job to quietly, but with solid strength, like the rooted trunk, stand by as you take root and grow into your own giving tree.
There is no stopping time. No pause. No freeze. The leaves go. They come back. The seasons ebb and flow. With this, comes the feeling of reluctant acceptance, wanting to be at peace with the passage of years, at the same time wishing for greater control.