The Boy Who Could Fly

When it was just the two of us, me and my sweet baby boy, we didn’t need much. A Batman cape. A worn-out copy of Pinocchio (or “Mocomoh,” if you asked him). A pair of my boots clomping across the floor in our tiny apartment.

And love. More love than those tiny four walls could hold.

Kyle was a curious soul from the start. A mischievous sparkle in those big eyes. He’d unroll every bit of toilet paper like it was a carnival ride, then try to roll it back, crooked and crinkled, hoping I wouldn’t notice. He’d color the walls with abandon, then scrub the evidence with water, leaving bigger stains and an even bigger grin.

But my favorite moments were when he’d take my face in his hands, so small, so soft, and whisper, “I’m so glad you’re my Mommy. I love you with my whole heart.”

And oh, did I love him with mine.

He ran through life like he was racing the wind, always checking to see if I was watching. I always was. And I always gasped in amazement at his speed.

Sports didn’t light his fire, though we tried them all. Then one day, we found water.
And Kyle? Kyle became a fish.

Those early mornings, driving to those many out of town swim meets, all of us in the dark, sipping our coffee to wake up and begging Kyle to eat so he could be strong, were some of my favorite times.

Because his school didn’t have a swim team, he’d get up at the crack of dawn and drive nearly an hour each way to practice with another team, day after day, 6AM sharp.
There were always just-right jammers to buy and goggles that had to fit just right, because a too-loose suit would slow him down and a too-tight pair of goggles would drive him crazy. And bottles of hair conditioner lined our bathroom, because all that chlorine would leave his hair so dry it would practically break!

But none of that stopped him. He fought hard for his place on that team, swimming his way to regionals with a determination that amazed me.

Even when nerves got the best of him and he’d be sick after a race, he’d towel off, get back on the block, and dive in again. Resilience has always been his strongest stroke!

Years later, when he chose to visit the father who’d put us on a bus and out of his life, he went not for vengeance, but for closure. He came home relieved, wiser, and somehow still carrying a heart big enough to forgive.

That is who my son is.
A man who loves hard.
Who wants everyone to thrive.
Who builds dreams for his children, a life full of joy, adventure, and togetherness.

Even now, when life has tried to steal his joy, when cruel words and injustice have chipped away at his spark, I see that boy in the cape. The one who wanted to fly. And he still can.

Kyle, if you are reading this:
You’ve faced darker waters than most will ever know. You’ve fought through waves meant to drown you, and you keep swimming.

But son, hear me, you are not finished yet.
The world still needs what only you can give. Your heart. Your ideas. Your spirit.

And me? I will always be here. Watching. Cheering. Amazed at your speed.

Because no matter how old you are, or how high you fly…

You will always be my sweet boy.
And I will always believe in you!