The last Ordinary Day

By: Dale L Hyde

If you knew today was the last day,
you would not waste the morning light
on screens that scroll past other lives.
You would step outside barefoot,
feel the dew claim your skin
like a quiet, urgent blessing.

You would call the ones you love
and say the words that usually wait
behind pride or fear or time—
I love you. I’m sorry. Thank you.
You matter more than I ever said.
You would eat the ripe peach slowly,
juice running down your wrist,
and watch a single bird
cross the sky without purpose
except to be alive in motion.

You would forgive the old wound
that still aches in the quiet hours,
not because it was small,
but because carrying it
would cost you this one remaining day.
You would laugh too loud at something ordinary,
hold a stranger’s gaze a second longer,
and leave the dishes in the sink
while the last sun paints the walls gold.

If you knew today was the last day,
you would stop rehearsing the future
and finally inhabit the present
as if it were already sacred—
which, of course,
it always was.

The Day You Learned to Fly

By: Dale L Hyde 

 

I remember the day I held you, so small you fit inside my arms, never imagining that someday those same arms would have to let you go.

I watched you take your first steps, then watched you run away from me, laughing as you chased your dreams, never knowing how quickly those little feet would carry you toward the door. I taught you how to tie your shoes, how to ride a bike, how to pick yourself back up when the world knocked you down.

 

I dried your tears, celebrated your victories, and stood behind you even when you didn't know I was watching.

 

Then one day, the bedroom that once held your toys holds boxes instead. The walls that heard your laughter grow strangely quiet. And suddenly,

I'm standing in a doorway watching my child pack a life that doesn't include me in quite the same way anymore. I smile because I'm proud. God, I'm so proud. But when you drive away, there's a piece of my heart that goes with you.

Because nobody tells you that raising a child is slowly teaching your heart how to live without them.

You spend eighteen years preparing them to leave… while secretly wishing you could keep them little just one more day.

I'm happy for you. I'm excited for you. I want you to see the world, fall in love, make mistakes, find your purpose, and build a life that's completely your own.

 

But if I'm being honest… I'm going to miss you. I'm going to miss the noise. The late nights. The arguments over stupid things. The laughter from down the hallway. The simple moments I never realized I would someday give anything to have back.

I'll miss being the one you came looking for. But this isn't goodbye. It's just another chapter. Because no matter how far you travel, no matter how many miles come between us, you will always have a home in my heart.

And if someday life becomes too heavy, if you stumble, if you get lost, if the world breaks your heart… come home. You don't have to be little again. You don't have to be perfect. You don't even have to say a word. Just come home. I'll still be here. Because being your parent was never about keeping you close. It was about loving you enough to teach you how to leave and being strong enough to watch you fly.

So go.

Build your life.

Chase your dreams.

Become the person

I always knew you could be.

 

And when I close that empty bedroom door and wipe away the tears you'll never see…

I'll smile. Because that little child I once carried in my arms has become someone strong enough to carry themselves. And that heartbreak I feel today is proof of something beautiful:

I didn't lose my child. I got to watch them become who they were meant to be. And there is no greater pride a parent could ever know.