You’ll be two tomorrow. And for a moment, as I was rinsing off the dishes from dinner, looking out over the neighborhood and the trees swaying in the foggy breeze, I felt hollow, for a flash, a prolonged moment, an exhale. Is this called grieving as they grow?

You’ll never again need me as much as you do today. Or a year ago, or now two years ago when you arrived, blinking, serious, curious, wise, stopping breathing for however many seconds the nurses were ticking off, to quickly, succinctly, efficiently teach us how it feels to have our hearts stop, to remind us that we’re all small mounds of sand ready to blow away in the winds of living, of striving to carve out a life well-lived.

You’ll never again be as small as you are today. Or a year ago, or now two years ago when you entered this liminal world. At whatever time it was, when the stars were high in the sky dissolved behind the cerulean blue curtain of the midday California sun. I often tell you the stars come out at night, but that’s not true. They are always there looking down, lyrical in their dances, year after year, always coming back to the same spot – a flash frame – on the day and time you joined us. I hope that knowledge one day brings you quiet comfort.

I hope I find ways to tell you the truths, all of them.

That you are not alone, ever, that the stars are with you, unless you want to retreat, to be in the corner of your own mind, for a moment, as I am now overlooking the neighborhood and the trees swaying in the foggy breeze. And the first star of dusk makes itself known, sequins of light shimmering on the delicate horizon. I feel full, for a flash, a prolonged moment, an exhale.