The prodigal son
The prodigal child is the proof that miracles, after a long, very long, Siberian winter, are possible. My child, my beloved son, my dreams of you haven't expired. You are the proof that the divine world has no clock. That time is always the present, eternal. A house can be renamed (''The Tree House'', why not), a life chapter can be unwritten and deep wisdom, relearned. And my senses have some catching up to do... timeline was fractured, growth spurts happened out of sight. Now you are taller than me. Now my foot compares its length to your giant shoes at my door... Your room. The full moon room. The tiger's den. Swaddle yourself in there as long as you need to. You had a long, arduous journey, with deafening mental noise, unimaginable wars, soul starvation. But your spirit is the same. I can see it, I can sense it. Through a different version of you, almost four years later, but I accept you. You are beautiful. Once loquacious, exclamative, effervescent, full ...
