Dedicated to my son Damien.

Dearest child of mine,

I know you don’t know it yet, but one day this day will come to pass.

I see it now, as I watch you caress the small, gentle lady bug that travels near your desk,

There is curiosity in your eyes,

Where did it come from?  Won’t it be missed?

My child, my darling child.

How can I protect you from the pleasures at hand and the pleasures yet to come?

For love is not what you think it is.

It is not like the movies we watch,

It is not like the books I read before we sleep.

There is so much more that makes love beautiful, but with this beauty there is formidable pain that lurks against the grain.

I just pray, as I kiss your forehead goodnight,

You may remember these words in which I speak with you tonight.

Love…

To truly love and to be in love are two separate branches from the same tree.

To be in love is to blind yourself with rose petals that smell of heaven,

and fool yourself with laughs that drown out the fabrications that create lust, desire, pleasure.

In love is to be lost in a free fall,

where the act of falling feels more like a perilous flight.

It can leave you ill,

it can lead you astray,

it can leash you into a trap,

where the lover is left in an endless state of vulnerability;

There is no control,

For it is the control.