A letter from Feb 06, 2023

Dear FutureMe, I had a dream I was a dad. I was in our herb garden, gathering basil and rosemary, and my daughter, with her small hands and big smile, placed purple violets in my hands. "What's that?" She asked, and I told her, "those are flowers from the rosemary, bug." "Can we keep them, daddy?" She asked me. Daddy. She called me daddy. I had a dream I was a Dad, the dad of a daughter curious about gardening. The dad of a daughter who wore a red sundress and wore an itty bitty sunhat that she'll certainly grow out of by the time she's eight. I was a dad. And I was so, unbelievably happy. The air was sweet with summertime and the sun trickled through the dancing branches. The hush of wind rippled through the leaves. And I was a dad. I was a dad in blue overalls and a white t shirt. Like my daughter, I wore a sunhat and my glasses, now permanent, sat on the bridge of my nose. And my daughter held my hand. I had a dream I was a dad. And I drove my daughter to school. We sang Fleetwood Mac on the drive and she pointed at the sky and said "Look how pretty it is, Dad!" And I agreed. I never wanted to be a mother. The thought of pregnancy and motherhood makes me ill. But Fatherhood. Fatherhood feels beautiful. It feels right. And if I'm going to have a child, I don't want to worry about my body's shape or others' perceptions. I want to be a dad. I want to be a father that thinks only about his children, not about his body, the heft of his ******* or the wideness of his hips. I want to be a dad I only want to worry about her: my beautiful daughter enchanted by our raised bed garden and our daily sunrise drives.