Complete silence.
Your father was gone.
Tears blurred my vision. I apologized to him. Over and over. I hated what I had to do. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
For years your father and I talked about fate or free will, destiny or decision. I think I have an answer now. It was my choice. It’s been my choice all along. And his. We chose each other.
Right now, you and I are in your father’s apartment. We’re surrounded by him, even though he’s gone. We can see him everywhere, in the golden light that comes in through the bedroom windows at sunrise, in the crimsons and midnight blues of the Persian rug on the floor, in the fragrant coffee beans stockpiled in his kitchen—coffee he’ll never get to drink. But we’ll drink it for him, you and I.
If I’m gone when you’re reading this, look up your father’s name: Gabriel Samson. Look up his art. Look up the exhibit he showed at the Joseph Landis gallery in Chelsea in 2011. I hope you can see, from his photographs, how deeply he felt for the world—and how deeply he and I felt for each other. He was an artist, your father, a brilliant, sensitive, beautiful artist who tried to make the world better with every photograph he took. He wanted to share stories across borders, across boundaries, across races and religions. And he did. But he gave his life for it.
He wasn’t perfect. You should know that. Neither am I. He was selfish sometimes, self-centered, self-important. He thought sacrifice was noble.
He never knew you were coming. I should have told him. Maybe it would’ve changed things. I can only imagine that if he knew about you, his mind-set would have been different, he’d be less willing to jump into the fray, throw himself into the battle. I can’t imagine he would’ve been willing to sacrifice his time with you. Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed a thing.
You were conceived in love—I want you to know that. Whatever comes next, whatever happens after I write this letter, whatever our lives look like when you read this, whoever you grew up calling “Dad”—I need you to know how much I loved your father. It was a passion that transcended time, space, and all logic. I hope that you find a love like that—one that is all-consuming and powerful, that makes you feel like you’re going slightly mad. And if you do find that love, embrace it. Hold on to it. When you give yourself over to love like that, your heart will get bruised. It will get battered. But you will also feel invincible and infinite.
Now that he’s gone, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way again. If anyone else will make me feel as special or as chosen or as desired as he did. As seen. But I count myself lucky to have experienced those feelings at all. I count myself lucky to have met him. And to have you.
You haven’t entered the world yet, but already I love you, my son. And I know that wherever he is, your father does too.