Dear son:

She will come to you,

pieces of her heart clenched in her fists,

a tilted smile,

and eyes like forgotten teapots.

She will clothe you in concrete,

ask you to be her leaning post,

her lighthouse,

and her healing oil.

She will wash herself in you,

crown you Trinity,

curl into you like the spine

of her leather journal,

ink her secrets into your skin,

and dare you to keep them.

Son,

when she comes to you with her spirit in a mason jar,

pray with her.

Hold her like a four-leaf clover.

Kiss her tears until your lips taste like the bottom of an ocean.

Tell her that even her fault lines are beautiful.

There are girls who have never seen the light of their father’s smile.

They wear Maybelline like war paint

and tuck their insecurities under their dresses like nylon slips.

They will accuse you of not being half the man that your mother raised you to be.

Love them anyway.