“i’m here!”

patron saints of one way trips

it’s prophesied that your child will grow up and kill you. and you know what the oracle thinks you will do about this. you know by her smile that she knows it won’t work. but you go home and you look at your infant and you know you will not. you hold your infant and you know that you will never not love them. that you would never attempt harm upon them. even to save yourself. you hold your toddler’s hands as they learn to walk and your heart feels so big in your chest as they toddle towards you that you know you would never send them away.

your infant grows into a child and you love them and the prophecy of your murder hangs above your head and all you can think is that you hope you have taught your child well enough that your death will be kind.

your child grows stronger and you teach them how to weave and how to wield an axe. you fix their posture as they learn to shoot a bow. they grow strong and brave and kind and you know you could never ever harm them.

and the your child learns of the prophecy. they learn that they will kill you. that it is fate. and they look at you and see a man who held the and wiped their tears away and helped them back to their feet and was never ever anything angrier at them than they deserved. and they look at their hands and see red. and while you have accepted your fate as a dead man. your child has not yet grown to know that their parents will die. your child has not accepted their fate as a murderer.

and so they run. they leave at night and they go far far away and they never ever come back and it hurts them more than anything ever has but they are comforted by the fact that they won’t kill their father. that their hands are clean. that you are safe.

and you?

by Robert Frost

The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree

I'm so normal about them