I remember my college graduation. My parents and Lolo crammed into my Brooklyn apartment and I stayed awake all night listening to the snores of my dad and my grandmother, so loud, so cyclical, that I was sure the building might levitate. I graduated at Lincoln center. My mom was three years younger than I am now and honest to God, Luke, it feels like yesterday.
Yet here were are. Three years after snores-a-palooza you were born. All two pounds of you. The week before your birth was a slew of hospital guests praying for you to at least make it to Mother’s Day. I guess you and I have that in common … we like to defy expectations, to do things in our own way and in our own time.
I just finished watching your thesis statement film, Equanimity (a word I had to Google). I cannot tell you how impressed I was or how in awe I am of your multitalented self. I teared up halfway through the Hamlet scene, not just because it was so damn good, but because of the comfort I found in knowing you have found your place in the world. Not many adults know what their calling is. You know. You have always known.
I don’t even really know what I would say to my twenty-three year old self that would be of any benefit to you. You already know way more than I did back then. You have become such an articulate, confidant, fun loving, high spirited, magical adult. You, and this has always, always been true of you, are a magnet. Light of the world …
Lizzie and I always marvel at the fact that you are one of the only persons we have ever encountered that holds no judgement. I have never heard you say a bad word about anyone. I have never heard you gossip. Ever. Do you know how amazing that is? Especially in your profession, that is amazing. It is annoying that you don’t let us make fun of the dresses at the Oscars, but if that is the worst thing that comes from being a beautiful soul, I will take it.
Happy twenty-three, my bartending by night, auditioning by day, boy. Congrats on your new contract and your new job, too. I cannot believe you are graduating from college in two weeks. I just cannot. You, my first born beautiful boy, the boy who made me a mom, is already a star. I hope that this new chapter of your life rewards you in the same energy that you use on the world: pure, blissful, open, surprising, and generous. Knock ’em dead kid. The world is ready for you.
I love you beyond measure.