Maya,
Sandon
left this for you.

You learned to whistle today. We were on the back deck and you'd been blowing air through your lips for weeks getting frustrated — and then suddenly, a note. Not a melodic note, a flat one-pitch peep, but you froze and looked at me like you'd discovered fire. You whistled again. You laughed. I'm writing this down because I think this is what learning feels like for the rest of your life — quiet, sudden, accidental, then yours forever.

It rained all afternoon and we made fortresses out of every blanket in the house. You named yours "the dragon part" and mine "the dragon's enemy." I don't think you know how much your imagination is mine too, now. I used to think I'd lose access to feeling small when I grew up. You gave it back.

You came downstairs last night and sat on the kitchen counter and said you were scared. You didn't say of what. I didn't ask. I just stood there with you and we ate cereal at midnight in our bare feet. If you're listening to this, I want you to remember: I'm scared sometimes too, and not knowing what to say is a thing you can offer somebody. You can be a person who is just there. That was enough for me with my dad. I hope it was enough for you with me.

You are sixteen and I'm writing this from the hospital where Grandma is dying. She asked about you today. She said she's proud of the person you're becoming. I want you to know that watching you grow up has been the great privilege of my life — bigger than my career, bigger than my marriages, bigger than any creative thing I'll make. You are the thing. The rest is paperwork.