Dear Owen,
I regret that I did not record this reflection on the immediate moment after this event took place; I hope that you do not take any negative reaction with regard to my delay. In addition, I may have the exact time off by a day or two; but, again, take in consideration of my respect of you with how you conquered everything at that moment.
You were five (Originally the text stated that “It was nine days, two months and one year ago” to emphasize my delay) on a day you had finally looked at your own fear in the eye and tackled it down to the ground — you, yourself, removed a splinter from your finger.
Now, dear reader, you may be giggling at this event; but take into consideration the perspective of this individual that this admiration is directed. Reflect for a moment that you are a five-year-old on the cusp of becoming six years of existence on this planet (that I hope remains in good health for you to enjoy):
The dark still holds great mystery and strength against you;
Tying your shoe still challenges you from time to time;
The new moments of discovery simple to adults still holds you in awe;
A cartoon character slammed flat into a closed door triggers the deepest of honest enjoyable laughter.
So returning to your splinter operation, you have had bad experiences tackled by your clumsy parents where unintended harm may have been inflicted. That in these sensitive times you are most alert and aware where small actions become a harsh salty piece of sand paper aggressively rubbed on already sensitive road-rashed skin. These moments can trigger the deepest impressions of fear. I apologize that my past operations to remove splinters and several ticks have caused you harm and instilled in you a fear of my operating the basic action using a tweezer removing the problem from your skin.
Two days passed since the moment when you were punctured before you fearfully showed to us that you had a splinter. You had told us that it had been that long. You had avoided the inevitably as much as possible; but, you wanted it out. That intrusive invader caused enough concern that you had to recognize it and alert us to it—even when, immediately after, you cried notifying us. You did not want to hear that it needed to be removed.
We had a struggle. It was not physical, but logical with debates declaring the necessity of removing that wood sliver from you finger. It did not happen even when I intensely broken my patience and grew more aggravated of how a simple process could be so hindered by an ignorant and defiant denial. Yes, you can call me mean and impatient; but I eventually discovered empathy. You won and I simply patched the problem with a bit of petroleum jelly and a colorfully branded bandage.
After another two days, you finally broke down with great regret that it had to be done. You said that we, the parents, could not do it; we were not allowed to fix the problem. You had to. And that my son, was the beginning of one of the greatest moments of your life and one of the many proudest moments I have of you.
You sat there, coarsely holding the implement in one hand directed at the intruder in the other. You had to take several attempts. Each time prompted by many moments of parental advice you just did not want to hear before you finally extracted it.
I saw this moment—your success— happen before it happen and I had already internally leapt with great joy that you tackled your own fear and successfully administered your own healing. Before that splinter completely left your skin, I had already screamed a loud yell of rejoice. I was amazed while you were still in wonder if it really had happened. At that moment, you had grew more years than any one adult will ever achieve. There are many who I hold with great respect and admiration; those that, as well as you, I will with the greatest of effort do anything. But for this single moment at that moment only you enforced my belief within me of you that you, son, are my hero.
Respectfully yours,
Your father