To you I’m yet immortal, a pillar of truth that fear in time have no holdover. In truth, I’ve known error and fault more often then their more appealing better halves. Soon you’ll come to realize this, and my presence Will reach a point of fragility that she will see through in a minute. Then you’ll know that I am no harbinger of acceptance nor even on the scale of righteousness, and harbor no sentiment more worthy than any other, and no vision or romance more vivid or with more clarity than that time will eventually grant you. In fact, if there’s one thing being your father has taught me, it’s that I will never be strong enough, smart enough, or complete enough to give you all that you deserve. Indeed, I don’t think anyone could be (except mom, of course). Since you were born, I’ve grudgingly come to accept these shortcomings, taking from each day a determination for tomorrow and planting it deep inside, hopeful that it’ll sprout into full-blown will before morning. But when the dust settles, I’m left with a sense of simple wonder, an unblinking echo of pure awe at how fortunate I am that you yet seem to enjoy my terrible singing and the distorted masks I wear. And the only words I can seem to muster are a quiet “thank you,” just above silence in case you ask me, “What for?” Because, as you can see, I can easily describe how unworthy I am to be your father, but there aren’t enough words in all the tongues of the world to describe just how grateful I am for being granted the task.
Happy second birthday, Maru.