Six Feet Under the Table

Last night, I held you in my arms much like I've done hundreds of times in the past 365. On this day, exactly one year ago (to the hour), you made your grand exit (or entrance, if you will). You looked much different than I imagined you would. Not that I had any idea what you would look like. The doctor handed you over to me. You were screaming, and then when I started to sing, you stopped. It was almost like you were listening. You slept in my arms all night. Body curved around mine, perfectly matched to the bend in my arm. Face nuzzled in. Warm. I could listen to you breathe all night. I have loved you since I met you. Over the past year, we've watched you bloom. You're still pretty quiet, but you're the happiest little thing. You're the introvert to your brother's extrovert. Quietly watching, never really trying, but doing everything perfectly well when you are good and ready. (I love that about you.) You're sensitive and sweet. You watch, and you mimic...