He left the window in his son's room, and walked to the side of his crib. Sly leaned on the side as he watched his son dozing. Jude could be a light sleeper; even now, he stirred and threw his hands back on the mattress with a small bang. Sly searched Jude's face for signs of discomfort or illness, but Jude remained asleep. "Bad dreams," he said as he adjusted the light yellow blanket to cover his son's small frame. "Me too."

Sly stood for a few more minutes until he was finally satisfied that Jude would not awaken. He shuffled quietly to the rocking chair by the window and sat down slowly. It had been a taxing week in the Eckert household. Emily had caught a nasty cold, which spread quickly to Jude and now, to Sly. There were half empty tissue boxes scattered around, and the soup dishes were piled precariously in the sink. Emily lay miserable in the bedroom, only half asleep as she coughed. She couldn't take any cold medicine, as she was still breastfeeding. Not that medicine is doing me much good, Sly thought as he held a hand to his brow, still warm to the touch. He had woken up with a start about a half hour earlier on the couch, his pulse racing, and his mind not far behind.

He couldn't remember the dream. It didn't really matter; the feelings of confusion and dread were familiar. The dream caught him by surprise: it had been a while since he'd had one like this. Lately, when he lay down to sleep, it was easier, better, longer.

A lot had changed since the day he told Emily he felt responsible for his father's death. Sly thought he was having a breakdown; Gail felt it was a breakthrough. Both she and Emily encouraged him to keep working at forgiving himself. Sly wasn't sure that was possible, but he had run out of options. Either he could try to heal or live trapped in a jail cell of his own making. I still don't know if I can do it, he thought. The curtain in front of the open window fluttered slightly with the breeze, and something caught his eye.

Sly picked up the yellow legal pad and pen from the radiator cover. Gail had suggested keeping a daily journal to express his feelings, whatever they may be, and stop them from spiraling around in his mind. Seeing his thoughts in black ink might lend some perspective. He held the Kelly's Diner pen in his right hand, which was becoming more flexible with each day. He began to jot.

October 14

Three a.m., and I'm sitting in Jude's room, watching him sleep. I think he's having a nightmare, and I hope he's not too scared. I had one tonight, the first one in a while. I can't remember it, but I think it's from this cold medicine I took. It's supposed to knock you out, but all I feel is wired. I read the label, and it says restlessness and excitability are side effects for some people. Leave it to me to have the adverse reaction.

Life feels hard this week. Not that it doesn't always, but I'm just getting frustrated. I try the best I can to do the right thing, be in the right frame of mind. I can hear Gail now: "There is no such thing as the 'right' way to feel." Man, now she's even talking to me inside my mind. Sometimes I think therapy has made me even crazier.

I've been thinking a lot about what kind of father I am. I'm not sure how I'm doing. I still think of my dad all the time, and it occurs to me that Jude will think of me that way. Scary. That's why I've got to try my hardest to be a good dad, be there for him when he needs me. Yet I know that sometimes it's just impossible. I might not be here, no matter how much I want to be. There's not much choice. What would happen if suddenly I were gone? What would he think? He probably wouldn't even remember me. Would he know how much I love him?

Sly felt a cough come on, so he grabbed one of Jude's stuffed animals, a small brown bunny. He held it to his face and coughed, muffling the sound to avoid waking the baby. When he was done, he placed the toy back on the shelf. "Sorry, rabbit," he whispered. "I'll make sure to wash you."

He stared back down at the journal entry for a few minutes, rereading the words, black on yellow. What would you do, Sly? How do you make sure that Jude won't forget? There was so much he wanted to tell him; so much that he couldn't even keep it all straight in his mind. Then Gail's voice spoke again from his memory. "Take control of the thoughts; lasso them onto the paper."

Sly smiled as he turned to a new, blank page. He took a second to try and calm his fidgety body, using some breathing techniques he learned in therapy. He coughed softly once, but the feeling soon passed. The soft glow of the light on the dresser illuminated the paper, and he began to write.

To Jude, at fifteen:

I've been sitting here a long time, watching you sleep. You've been moving around a lot, making little noises now and then. I look at you and wonder what you're thinking.

In case you think this is creepy, well, you're only about 5 months old as I write this. Fifteen seems miles away. I look at you tonight, and it's hard to believe you'll ever be that age.

I hope you won't find this letter too rambling, but it's three in the morning, I can't sleep, and I'm sick. I apologize for any loopy-ness now.

I wanted to put down in writing a few important things I think you should know. Fifteen is a big year. You're probably a sophomore in high school by now, or maybe you're a freshman, or even skipped a few grades and became a senior. (There's a good chance you're brilliant. I can tell already.) You've most likely figured this out, but high school can be hell. If you're anything like me, you've probably mastered the art of staring out the window and imagining yourself anywhere but in class. It's a key skill for surviving, but I hope you won't do it all the time. Not all of the information you'll learn is useless. Pay special attention in English class. There are plenty of good books and poems out there that people much wiser than you or I have shared with the world. Take their insights and use them. Math and science, foreign language, those are all good too, but I just have a bias for the written (and spoken, and sung) word.

Fifteen is kind of a stuck in the middle time. You're well into the teenage years, but still a year away from driving. The puberty thing is still in full swing, and the hormones have taken control of your body and mind. You have surpassed the knowledge of a child, but you're still treated like one. Take heart. Twenty is closer than you think.

I'm sure you know a lot about the ways of the world now, and you've seen a lot. I will never underestimate children, who always observe everything, even when the adults don't think they're watching.

It's hard to know the future, but I hope you're not growing up too fast. That's what happened to your mother and me. We learned quickly how to take care of ourselves, learned things some people don't figure out until well after they're on their own. That's the thing; we were on our own way too soon. I pray that's not the case for you. There's something to be said for a healthy innocence. Jaded may seem more cool, but jaded is sometimes a cover for desperate insecurity.

I make my solemn promise that I will always be here for you. If you have questions about anything, ask. I want you to feel that you can speak openly with me. Don't worry about shocking me (because I've probably heard it), or scaring me (because I've probably felt it). I am not a fragile person, so please don't feel like you have to protect me. I know children want to shield their parents from pain, but it's not your responsibility to build up my ego or hold together my mental state. I hope you'll be brave and strong, but not all the time. If you need to scream and cry, I'll be there. If you want to be alone, that's ok, too.

I know you'll have secrets from me. It's natural. They're not necessarily bad. Only you know how it feels when the girl you like smiles at you, or when you see the sunset, or when a friend betrays. Things like that are inexpressible. I don't expect you'll tell me everything that goes on in your life. I just ask that you don't hide anything dangerous, something that hurts you. Don't let fear or pride get in the way of letting someone know. Your safety, health, and happiness are my priority.

I want you to be happy: delirious, transcendental, "I'm at one with the world and everything's going to be alright" happy. I know there's a lot of sorrow out there, but don't let it overtake your heart. There is still so much to celebrate: good food, good company, good music. Maybe there's no promise of your next heartbeat, but you've got this one, and that's enough.

Sly stopped writing. His hand ached, so he gently massaged the back of it with his left. This is getting too Hallmark card, he thought. I need to rein it in a little.

I mentioned good music in the last section. I have found it to be one of the greatest joys of my life. In fact, it used to be my only joy; then I found your mother, and we started our own family. Still, music is my preferred form of expression, of escape. There are people who say they can live without music. They are lying. This earth turns on music, sound waves from deep within the oceans. Every creature has their own internal metronome and their personal beat.

I picked up the guitar when I was almost fifteen. Talk about revelations. It came pretty easily to me, and soon, I couldn't live without it. Remember those inexpressible emotions? This was my outlet for them. Words sometimes just don't cut it, but a note, a chord progression can say it for you. Writing about music seems contradictory in this way.

I hope music will be important to you, too. There are so many good songs, too many to ever really know, but I've made it a personal goal to listen to as many of them as I can. Don't judge an album by its cover. Keep your ears open to all of the possibilities: jazz, country, blues, techno, rock, rap, classical, folk, heavy metal, meringue… Well, you understand what I mean. No prejudice in music (and in life). You can feel free to listen to everything I own. It's always exciting to discover a new favorite song, and I hope you won't think it's un-cool to dig through your dad's collection. I have what I feel are indispensable recordings, but I don't want to tell you what they are, because that's very personal. I want you to discover your own Jude essentials.

Maybe music won't be your passion. Perhaps you'll take to cars, or painting, or calculus. That's good, because I want you to be an individual. Conformity is boring. I can't wait to see you develop into your own person.

Sly he took another sideways glance at his son, trying to picture him as a teenager. Hope he looks more like Emily than me. Guess I can't choose that, he thought.

No matter how independent you'll be, you'll always carry some of me with you. That's got its good and bad side. I have more than my share of faults, some of which you'll see reflected in yourself. I'm sorry. Watch out for guilt. You are descended from the Eckert/Spencer family, and guilt is kind of our trademark. Just try to remember that bad stuff is not always your fault.

Sly put down the pen again and looked back over his writing. This is stupid, he thought. He's going to laugh at me. Even I don't believe all this stuff. He sniffled and ran the back of his left hand across the bottom of his nose. It's time for honesty here.

I will never forget something my father said to me right before he died. "It can't be that easy to be my kid." It wasn't, and it probably isn't for you, either. I am trying my best to give you everything I need, but I'm kind of learning as I go.

Let me rephrase that: I am scared out of my mind. I don't know what kind of parent I'll have been by this point. I've probably already screwed you up in deep, everlasting ways. I'm sorry if that's true. I feel breathless every time I look at you. God has given me this awesome gift and I don't feel worthy of it.

I want only good things for you, hearts and flowers, happiness and light. I know it's not possible. There's too much bad shit in this world. I guess we'll never know true happiness in this life, but I believe we will in the next.

And just because I believe this, I don't expect you to. You shouldn't believe in something just because your parents do. Investigate it for yourself: do some research, kick the tires a little. Here's what I believe: God created us, and loves us. Life may not always be fair, but He is. He sent his Son here to walk with us; be human just like us; die like us, for us. I know I don't have faith even the size of a mustard seed, but somehow, He still gets me through.

This is not a life of absolutes, even though this is probably the worst time to tell you this. Every teenager has that righteous anger thing, "I'm right, the world owes me." Do me a favor; when you're convinced that whatever you're thinking you are absolutely correct, take a step back, just for a second. Maybe the situation isn't painted in black, but a million beautiful shades of gray.

Sly's hand began to cramp up, and he put down the pen. He stared at the pages as he massaged the tired muscles. I can't believe I've written all this, he thought. Either this is the most brilliant I've ever been, or this cough medicine has me totally wasted. Jude stirred again in his crib, and Sly looked over, alert for problems, but none arose. "You're a good boy," he whispered, and then picked up his pen again, hopefully for the last time of the night.

By now, you're probably rolling your eyes, and with good reason, so I'll try and wrap up these cluttered thoughts. You are my son. You have been a wonderful child, and you'll be a wonderful man. I don't know how I got so lucky to have you, but I take luck where I can find it. I love you. I love you in a way I never thought I would be able to. You've resurrected so many pieces of my heart, when I thought they were dead forever. You saved my life, Jude Eckert.

I want to leave you with some lyrics I'm thinking of. I wish I had something of my own, but if I have to quote someone else, I could do worse than Jackson Browne.

Boy of mine
As your fortune comes to carry you down the line
And you watch as the changes unfold
And you sort among the stories you've been told
If some pieces of the picture are hard to find
And the answers to your questions are hard to hold
Take good care of your mother
When you're making up your mind
Should one thing or another take you from behind
Though the world may make you hard and wild
And determine how your life is styled
If you've come to feel that you're the only child
Take good care of your brother.

Remember, I'm here for you, Jude. I'll never put you down, never turn my back, never fade away.

I love you.

Dad

Sly's hand trembled as he wrote the final word. He glanced out the window to full-fledged sunrise, orange and yellow streaking the sky. He would have to go to work in a few short hours. "It was worth it," he said, folding the papers and putting them in one of the dresser drawers.

Jude let out a few noises, and Sly looked, surprised to find him awake and attentive. He lifted his son out of the crib. "Good morning," he whispered. "Thank you for being quiet and not waking up mommy."

Jude gurgled in response, and Sly kissed the top of his head, holding him close in his arms. "I love you so much. I hope you know that. Just in case, now you have it in writing."

Song Credit: "The Only Child" by Jackson Browne, from his album, The Pretender.

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