I cannot help but think that it is all a terrible mistake.

My children trust me. They trust me with all of the love and strength and confidence and joy and facile, “you’re so silly” cynicism that their little hearts are capable of generating.

They trust me to have their best interests in mind. Always. To be able to look beyond the petty concerns of whatever occupies my day – stresses of work, my wife’s work, family, extended family, daily logistics, long-term planning, existential ennui, emotional swings, exhaustion, the slow, inevitable decay of my carcass, the rapid and senseless descents into rage and confusion, the omnipresent fear of just not being good enough – and focus on them: to apply the whole of my attention and compassion upon the three of them with the infinitely quick and gentle touch of a hummingbird’s wings in flight. Each feather-soft moment of contact an expression of love.

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