The
story of you will always be told differently in my book. Even though Mom and Dad
have ultrasounds and legal documents, I know the conception of you happened somewhere
between my childhood dreams and the grace of God. You are mine in a way that
nothing ever has been or will be again. Even though my body bears no physical
proof, the scars on my heart where you’ve stretched and made a home are
evidence that you have lived here too.
I
remember wrapping my arms around Mom’s swollen belly and whispering my
excitement to you through layers of flesh and fluid. When you were finally
born, I held you with shaking arms marveling at how something so fragile could
kick so hard. I remember trying to absorb every detail about you – the length
of your eyelashes, the curvature of your lips, the absolute tininess of your
fingernails.
You
taught me how to change a diaper, how to properly play hide-and-seek, and how
to simultaneously grocery shop while singing every known version of “The Itsy
Bitsy Spider.” Most importantly, you taught me how to love something more than
myself. I never knew what head-over-heels, take-a-bullet, life-on-hold love was
until you came into the world.
I’ve
watched you crawl and walk, ride bikes and read. I’ve watched your face change
in the reflection of my rear view mirror. I have suppressed tears at every school
performance and I finally understand what adults mean when they say, “it goes by
so fast.”
Your firsts were my firsts and I have delighted
in every single step. You are my friend, my tiny teacher, my inspiration. You
are my sister.
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