Son,

As July drew close,
we set off on our summer vacation,
timed perfectly with your break from daycare.

At two years old, you sat by the sea,
crafting something from the sand.
Finding a slender stick somewhere,
you placed it in your creation and declared it a cake.

When I asked whose birthday it was,
you answered, “The ocean.”

“Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear ocean,
Happy birthday to you.”

You blew on the stick as if extinguishing candles,
then clapped your hands.

You wanted to do it again.

Standing there with you,
singing a birthday song to the ocean,
I felt an unexpected sting of tears.

Why was that?

Perhaps it was because your mother’s birthday was approaching.

Last year, to celebrate your mother’s
seventh birthday since we met,
I, in all my romantic ambitions,
ordered seven gifts from overseas
— a dress, a bracelet, a necklace, a jumper, and more.

But alas, the gifts turned out to be poorly made knock-offs from China,
shoddy imitations of luxury brands,
leaving your mother slightly disappointed.
Not a single item was usable.

Was that why
the birthday song for the ocean unsettled me,
stirring a vague sense of unease?

Yet, I knew that was not the real reason for my tears.

I held you close
as we stepped into the waves.

With my back turned to the sea,
I braced myself against the water, shielding you from its force.
How strong and steadfast I felt at this moment.

But as the waves grew taller,
I ran to avoid the waves.

I misjudged the timing to avoid the swell,
we both ended up swallowing seawater.
Once we lost the rhythm,
we couldn’t escape the water.

Another large wave came,
and I strained my neck
as I turned my back to it.

I called out desperately to your mother,
who laughed heartily from the shore.

Was that why this ocean made me feel melancholic?
Was it because I feared that my clumsy attempts at being your protector
might not keep you safe from waves?

Yet, deep down, I knew this wasn’t the reason tears came to my eyes.

You stood up from the sand.

"Are you leaving?" I asked.

"Yes," you replied.

“Brush off your bottom,” I said.

But instead of brushing off the sand,
you wiggled your hips.

I laughed and helped dust the sand off
your little bottom.

We started walking back to the hotel, hand in hand,
our bare feet sinking into the sand with each step.

As we walked, I realized why that birthday song made me so sad
and why it brought tears to my eyes.

The ocean will hear your birthday song
for decades to come,
but I won't always be around to sing it with you.

One day, like our summer vacation,
our time together will end.

Unlike the ocean, I won't always be there for you, always by your side.

Just then, you, no longer in diapers,
suddenly announced that you must go to the bathroom.
I scooped you up and sprinted towards the hotel.

We had to make it to the room in time.
My son, you had to hold back.

“Hold on, my boy,"
I said.
But as I ran, both of us giggled,
sharing a moment of lightness amidst my thoughts.

If I live to be 80,
I still have 40 more years with you
so why am I already feeling sad?
What a fool I am.

But this summer vacation reminds me
that our time together isn't infinite.
I’ll cherish every moment I have with you and your mom,
always keeping in mind that these moments, like summer, will one day come to an end.

I hope you’ll treat your family the same way.

With love from our summer vacation,

From Dad.