if we could talk again

The reconciliation happens far, far away. So far it never happens. Beyond structure, beyond duty, beyond faith, daring to sin by loving your child and finally being there, wholly there. No more pride or tradition to clip the wings of acceptance. No more hiding from your faults. No more shaping the child to the ideal, but maybe instead discovering the little one who sat at the table, lived under your roof. Finally loving the child instead of the premise of one. Finally a true embrace instead of one performed. A reckoning of understanding. But it is far, far away. So far it never happens. To our deathbeds we go, Shackled to our unhappy endings by stubborness and the hardening of the pharoh's heart.