Hey, bud. I’ve been putting this off, as I do. You’re still a senior…for a few more days. But you’ll be a college freshman soon. Maybe I couldn’t wrap this up because I still can’t believe we’re here. Because I well up when I try to write this out. Because I think we’re all underestimating just how much your little brother is going to miss you. You understand this procrastination. We’re both always too optimistic that there’s plenty of time to say and do and experience all of the things.
But we are here. Now.
You have always had an epic presence. You’re a walking miracle. You were a ginormous baby with these gargantuan feet. Your rivers of wisdom and proclivity for giggles demand more space. You’re brimming with this self-proclaimed main-character energy, without an ounce of ego.
Now, we’re at that intersection of place and time where I heard we’d be shadows passing in hallways. I see you in the mornings, before 7am, to give you to-go breakfast and a hug on your way out of the door. After school, there’s work and the gym and you have to see about a girl, so I see you 14 hours later when you come in. We’ve boomeranged. When you walk through the door, I see glimpses of the way you used to come at me full speed when you were little and I had to brace myself to catch you. You always stop (Hey, Momma!) and give me the fiercest squeeze. I believe you’re actually pumped to see me. That’s your way. You’re never breezing through. There’s a hug and intention in your every coming and going. There aren’t enough moments though. (Is this a kindness from the universe, gently, progressively preparing me for the quiet chasm to come?)
You’re going to leave a muffled hush because there’s nothing still about you. From your loud outfits, those goofy-awesome sweaters from the Tik Tok shop and baggy pants and the way you own it all without apology, to your Ozzie voice-overs and wild hair and kitchen choreography and declarations of You have to hear this song right this second at max volume.
You fill a room, but you always leave space for everyone’s feelings. You ask: how was your day? You mean it. You want and expect an answer. And you know–without anyone speaking a word–when someone’s scale is tipped in the way they’d rather it didn’t. This sixth-sense is rare air. But the way you use it is even more beautiful. Your intuition is ready with a hug or a prayer or a song or a story that sets the scale straight…straightaway.
The way you encourage the chef at hibachi, the way you accept anything anyone is passing out…a flyer, an invitation, stickers, the way you validate any soul in your sphere. Just to say I see you. I acknowledge you. Your presence matters. And you’re easy with your I love yous, whether you holler it downstairs, flash it in sign language or share the crispiest bits of a casserole. You, in true Tucker fashion, take your brother everywhere–to the movies, to anime events, to thrift vinyl. You’re his counsel on clothes, girls and mom & dad. You’re his favorite human.
Your art is honest and raw and unapologetic, my favorite things about you. I like to keep a clean house; we all know it. But you took over the room over, converting it to your studio. And I was content to let your corner of chaos stay messy and vulnerable and precious. The pencil shavings, color scrambles and half-finished canvases, this miss-matched mayhem where you painted through your own identity.
You despise snakes (nope-ropes, fear-spears, danger-noodles), you loathe bad drivers. But, most of all, you’re really not keen on small talk. Your teacher gave you the Inquisitive Intellect award this year. I know why. You ask us pointed questions at dinner: If you could only do one job every day for the rest of your life, what would make you the happiest? What’s the soundtrack of your life? What place on the earth is the most you? You push and you ask and you interrogate, yet your faith keeps you anchored. Your clarity can be alarming, unsettling. When I needed to make one of the biggest decisions of my career, you asked me: do you ever go back and read the notes you take in church? I took your advice, my kid, my teenager, and found the answer in black and white. Simply take the next best step. Just do the ordinary in faith.
It gut-punched me last night when I was reading through your final AP art portfolio (that you would not let me read until after you had submitted it)…how big you think and wonder and dream. How much you know. How, in a million ways, you don’t need me the same anymore. And, an avalanche of aches was swallowed up in an ocean of pride without measure. Exactly as it should be.
It’s an alien familiarity, an ambivalent dance. I wonder at you, your brain, your questions, your humor. I thank God that he let us keep you for a little minute. Bless. What a little, fleeting, miraculous minute. I worry nonstop. Yet…I’m not anxious. Because I know you. I know your heart. And I’ll keep praying for the Light to guide your feet. Follow the truth, stay in the Way, and chase what fills you up.
Thank you for always keeping us laughing, talking, thinking, dancing, listening to new music, trying different things. We love how you see the world and how you show up in it, all in with a full heart and open mind.
Even though I gave you all I had, I promise, I know you wish you were taller–like your dad.
But—to me—you are a giant.
my ft.notes 