There you are.
In your Brooklyn Navy Shipyard suite--a white walled, multi-windowed space that beckons creativity. A potter's wheel in one corner, a center work table and counters lining the window, all catching the suffused sunlight of a north facing exposure. It is hot, so the window panes are tilted to their widest angle in hopes of inviting any breath of wind the steamy July day might part with.
Boone, your Brindle dog, once nosing into every shopping bag and clay bucket, now older, lies lazily on the white painted floor, spongy paws taking in the cool of the cement. Shelves spill over with the latest bisque collection, lamp bases and shades, glazes and carving tools. A fine layer of ice-grey powder covers every surface.
Defaulting into mother-mode, I offer to organize the cluttered sink while you add hardware to a lamp sample that must make the mail today, bound for inspection from hoteliers who will soon appoint their boutique rooms with custom lighting from Episode.nyc. "It's ok, Mom," you say. "Everything is where it should be." Adjusting my relational place again, I retreat to the window seat.
The sweetest of girls shares your affection, supports and, yes, while you are well mannered and socially aware, she still refines any rough edges that have followed you into this thirtieth year.
I and your father stand at a greater distance than when I wrote the 20th birthday letter, though not without ample discomfort from this adult parenting business of increasingly letting go.
There you are.
Following your own path. College interrupted, but your work has found its way into Architectural Digest and British Vogue and hotels in New Orleans, San Francisco and the Caymen Islands. Dishware, chess sets, pendants and table lamps that are more work of art than functional residing in homes as far away as France.
You have much to show for your twenties, choosing to act on your passions rather than dutifully finishing a course of classes that would leave you indebted to both loans and lost time. You are almost more New Yorker than Floridian, now, having spent equal years in both states. And your first five years in California are a faint memory, details and adventures of which your older brothers and sister must remind you.
By the way, your stuff is still in our attic--golf clubs, fishing poles and plastic boxes of memorabilia. You ran out so quickly five days after high school graduation, and haven't taken anything since. Living in cramped quarters in NY is a valid excuse. Those childhood report cards, notes and letters, along with the family cellphone plan are soul ties I unhealthily cling to. So, no rush. Leave them there.
And Happy Birthday, Son. Never been prouder, nor had a fuller heart to see you now
Where you are.
