Today I went to Barnes and Nobles, ordered a picture book on depression for my future nephew. I wonder if I could write one for him that would be better. Well written, precise. So he could understand, perhaps, why I couldn’t be at his baby shower today. And why I may not be able to be there in the future, sometimes.
How much I love him already. I’ve already collected over 50 books, just words strung together that will hopefully let him know, years from now, how much he is loved. Especially when my words or my actions, or lack thereof, fail to let him know. My future godson, who I hope to teach not to be religious, but to be kind. Not to be spiritual, but to be forgiving. To be merciful and loving, and embrace the sick and hungry as if they were his own family.
I don’t know how I’m going to do that exactly, to instill in this tiny person that we are all one and the same, and that we should not hate, but try our bests to be at peace.
But I can try. And when the monk comes back from Chicago, I will talk to him. About what he thinks on depression. Maybe he holds some kind of answer. Maybe his lack of answer would be its own answer.
I’m already trying so hard, and shopping today for children’s books was one of the hardest parts of my day. But maybe one day it won’t be so hard.
And hopefully, by next time I’ll get to be at the next baby shower.
Sister, I’m there whenever you need, or want me there. I love you, my brother and Oliver more than a billion waterfalls.