In the beginning you were peach fuzz hair and folds of billowing goodness, soft skin chubbiness everywhere. You left trails of drool behind with your kiss and you had a spirit so pure it filled my eyes with tears, every time I looked at you.
I worried that your family disintegrated early. I worried that your easy laughter would fade and trail when you realized that your parents were broken.
But your joy just got stronger, and you showed me the way down forest paths and through beach rocks and of the joy in running for no reason and you paved a clearance in an impossible trail of rubble.
And you held my hand tight when I felt fragile, and told me it would get better. You astounded me with your tiny, atrociously early wisdom.
You welcomed your stepfather with joy over cynicism and I thought that you would finally show some bitterness when your brother was born. Surely there would be some jealousy, some recognition that your spot in my heart would have to be shared?
But your heart is giant, and there’s nothing but good in it. You broke down when your brother was born, only when the doctor pricked his toe to draw blood. You couldn’t stand to see him in pain.
You’re a truly amazing little human. I can’t fathom that eight years have passed, and that eight years and one day ago, the world hadn’t been enriched with your spirit and relentless joy for life.