My obsidian-eyed boy. You bring quartz and sometimes shiny concrete, glass beads from class, mechanical pencils, or stickers. your currency of love comes through axles and bicycle chains, Lego building sessions and Uno. Your imagination deconstructs and rebuilds worlds.

I steal glances at you—so handsome!—while we play, and chuckle at how vehemently you play by the rules. Your character forms and grows and is introduced to nuance, and I am struck by the honor of guiding you.

I remember when I would wear you, your raven curls brushing my chin, your baby fingers gripping my index finger. You made me a mother. Your bravery in entering this cold unfamiliar world with open-eyed grace and curiosity continues to motivate me. I admire you; the way you name and voice your emotions, your dogged loyalty to family, the Christlike way you really do love your enemies (I want to fight them). The obsidian-eyed curious wonder of you…I hope you feel down to your marrow how glorious you are.

How effortless and guileless, like the auburn curl at rest on your forehead, like the picked dandelions that grace our dinner table, is your kindness. There’s a dimple under your right eye we can only see when you laugh with abandon, or grin cheesily for a photo. You are the child that came with healing. The joy after great sadness. I never have to wonder if you know your worth, because oh, baby, you do. Family is your cradle and you rest well.

Protector of truth and curator of thoughtfulness, you have the gift of poetry already. You observe lavishly, and love headlong. Sometimes for no reason, you put your small arm around me, lay your head on my shoulder and say, “Mommy.” I want to cry and laugh. So much poetry in you. I wonder if you are just remembering the 3 am feeding and changing. Just before I would put you to bed, I would stare at us in the mirror—you snuggled into the crook of my neck—and say, “remember this.”