What can you do when your little boy cries in the other room but cry with him, say his name over and over in your prison cell consultation room like a mantra, a prayer, a spell to keep him safe.
I've never loved anyone in the world like I love him, more than I loved my other dogs and cats, and I loved them more than anyone in the world before he came into my life.
Soul mates do exist. The One does exist. Pilot really exists, and some days I have to pinch myself to believe it's true. Others I take him for granted, and he me, because that's what best friends do when their love runs this deep.
What can you do when your little boy rolls on the grass and forgets what he's doing half roll, drunk, high, loaded on opioids, one cheek smushed into the lawn and one butt high in the air? You can laugh. Push him over until he starts rolling again, ask him if lawns feel especially lush and sunshine especially golden when he's trippin' balls all over the neighborhood.
My sweet boy. We drive around town with the windows down, his cone a satellite dish for scents and sounds as he floats on his endorphin cloud. If he could talk he would slur words like "groovy" and "cool" and I would call him an old hippie.
Tomorrow I will wake up crooked and sore, tonight's parental instincts bracing my body in impossible positions to accommodate the comfort of my baby's plastic bubble head in bed.
What can you do when your little boy cries but everything you possibly can to make it better.
All pictures and words copyright Anna Horvitz (me) and cannot be used without my consent.