A Blip in Time and Space

Offerings From a Stranger

My child,

No, not mine. You were never mine.

Not in the way that your blood isn’t flooded with my genetics. And I’m sorry for the problems that will inevitably cause for you. You are definitely mine in that way.

But I don’t own you. I could never hope to imagine a life better than the one you’ll dream of creating for yourself. I can’t, not for lack of training from those who came before, put myself in a position of that much power. Who am I to be so arrogant, so presumptuous? I am not the master of your world. I am but a blip in time and space. I am chosen for you, yes. Assigned to you.

But, no. You are not mine, because I will spend the rest of my little life being yours. I am a tool, however functional, perhaps given to you by fate, if you believe in her. A poorly translated instruction manual, for whatever that is worth.

And you are my final lesson.

You’re a seed I must plant as a show of my aptitude. If I were training to be a healer; if I’d “learned one,” and “done one,” you would be my “teach one.”

And, as any pupil would, you’ve already taught me things you won’t even realize you could. Not until your feet land squarely in my footsteps. Not until you’re forced to look into the vastness of another’s future as it sits heavy in your palm, just as I look now, if you dare.

Know that as I write this, I already miss you. But the choice I make today is the most important one of my life. I hope you and those who came before won’t be angry for too long. I hope you’ll see that it’s not only what I want, but it’s the only choice that makes any sense to me. It’s almost not a choice at all.

Image by Jacked Faction

This body of mine has nearly reached its limit. I have an expiration date, but it’s still malleable. It’s my choice, or so I’m told.

But this life, shortened as it is, isn’t mine anymore. It’s yours. It’s an offering to you; an act of service, to which I’m already committed. There is so much I still want to achieve, but it all loses its meaning the second I begin to mourn you.

I may stay alive if I let you die here and now, but I will cease to live.

In this one moment, in the iteration of me that leaves this message for you, I know nothing of who you are. In this moment, we are strangers, thrown together by circumstance. Unable to see or understand one another, yet involuntarily affecting each other with every heartbeat. As I breathe, I am your vessel; your host, at the very least.

As I walk, you are rocked to sleep. As I eat, you are energized and activated, trying to kick your way out of me. As I lie down to sleep, you’re disrupted from your own, moving and stretching, coaxing me into different positions through restless nights. As I sit up in bed, I try to imagine just how much hair might be the cause of such aggressive heartburn. I still don’t understand how these two things are related, but they are.

And now, as I stand at this precipice, I look at all the possible timelines that could branch from this moment. I look behind me, far enough back to see the fork in the road that led me here, but unable to walk back to it. Not because my feet fail me, but because my heart already has. Any option, any choice I make, will cause me immeasurable pain. Including--no, especially--making no choice at all.

There’s a version of me that chooses a compromise, thinking, or just hoping, that it will give us each more time. It won’t, and I’ve always known it, deep in my mind. A futile choice that sates me in a moment of willful ignorance. Of blind hope. In the long run, though, the damage spreads far and wide. Everyone involved loses.

You’ll eventually come to see a side of yourself that will make you scowl at your reflection, sickening you to your core. I battle with that side of me every day until now, and even now. The survivalist. The id. Call it selfish, call it inconsiderate or indifferent toward others. It’s in us all. It’s not immoral or wicked; not righteous. It’s necessary. It’s human. It’s what got us here in the first place. Survival of the strongest, the cleverest, the most self-serving. The price of evolution.

There’s a version where that side of me takes over. Where I go on and leave you in the dirt. My guilt, my sadness, my grief for you and who you might have become, consumes me. I live on, but every action forward is informed by regret and self-loathing. A piece of me stays where I buried you. The rest of me returns frequently with offerings of wilting petals clinging to freshly killed stems. Like a penny thrown into a fountain, I place them at your grave and wish. Wish for peace, though I don’t think I deserve it. Wish I’d made a different choice, because I can’t believe any other could have hurt this much.

And now there is me, leaving this message to you. I can see only possibilities from here, not certainties. I know that by simply offering you this chance, I am inflicting pain. I want you to know that I’m sorry for the pain, but not for all the outcomes that pain can purchase. You won’t understand this for a long time, and it will feel unfair. That I must fall to lift you up. That I must stagnate for you to thrive and grow. That I was never meant to mourn you, but you were built to mourn me.

My last apology is this: I hope one day you can see from my side. That you get the chance to feel the exquisite weight of responsibility for someone’s future. To feel the only truly unconditional love in any timeline. The love for a stranger so fragile and helpless that their only instinct is to cling to you like a magnet. To make sounds so desperate that they demand your quick reaction.

I hope you get the chance to give your love, your knowledge, and your whole self, to this former stranger. This being that you’ll forget is not only a reflection of you, but a whole other entity. This friend that transcends the meaning of the word, that is somehow both closer and more distant than any relationship you’ve ever experienced. This child who will grow to love you, then hate you, then miss and appreciate everything you were, from your worst mistakes to your kindest acts.

There is nothing in this life, in my limited experience of it, that compares to the exquisite pain and joy of giving yourself so completely to another. Except, of course, if you’re lucky enough to do it a second time, or a third. Breaking yourself into as many pieces as they need to consume. Stretching yourself before them as a bridge between helpless ignorance and hopeful independence. Unable to look away as they fall and cry out, but knowing they have to fail in order to learn to succeed.

I’m sorry for the pain this experience will cause, and I don’t envy anyone the emptiness of never knowing it. You’ll get used to most of the pain. It’s part of you, part of anyone. You’ll never get used to loneliness, though. Don’t let it catch up to you.

You’ll choose people who are bad for you, you’ll learn how to recognize them. You’ll choose them anyway, in moments of desperation. Don’t be ashamed when you do. You weren’t built for loneliness, and it will eat you alive if you let it.

I wish I could stay and watch you become what you will. But only one of us can go on from here, and I’m the only one in the unfortunate position of being able to choose. I hope one day you can understand why I chose you. That you can understand how, even in the face of my own destruction, choosing you comes easy.

And if you can’t understand, maybe you can simply forgive me my absence and find solace in my words. In the fact that even now, in finalizing this decision as I scribe this letter, in the pain my body still feels before I go, I feel strong. I feel resolved.

I feel love for you, and from you, in every way you send it. I feel at peace.

Now, go. Live.

Yours always,

Teacher. Mother. Stranger.