Dear Tristan,

          How can you care for others,
          But not care for yourself?

I lie awake.
The half moon,
whose soft white shine
invades my room
and makes the tears that rest on my cheeks sparkle;
illuminates half of my face
so that the moon and I
can become a whole.

Only me
and the silence of 2 A.M.

Outside goes the party-goer
-knackered and filled with a portion of fresh memories
that won't be found in the morning-
to his rest.

Only he
and the silence of 2 A.M.

Outside stumbles the drunkard
-with repressed thoughts and events
that he couldn't erase out of his memory by a bottle-
to his end.

Only he
and the silence of 2 A.M.

Outside staggers the broken one
-with blood that’s drowning in wine and as red as the lips of the woman he tries to forget-
to his death.

Only he
and the silence of 2 AM.
L.T.

You

Your light blue eyes that resemble your fathers and like mine, never want to rest
Your thick, golden hair that bounces with every move you make
Your imagination that is wilder than any children's book
Your big feet that stomp around the house and chase the monsters away
Your fingers that so often open the refrigerator for that last piece of cheese
Your strong legs that never stop kicking, running, walking, moving
Your arms, the way they sway as you watch your favorite show, the way they hug and wrap around my legs as I drop you off at daycare, not wanting to let go
I don’t want to let go
Your mind, constantly wondering, constantly thinking and scheming, and growing each and every day
Your voice, the most amazing sound I have ever heard, even in the middle of the night when you should be fast asleep “mama” is what I hear and “mama” is what you made me and “mama” I am proud to be.
You, Liam Hugh, Age 2