Dear Reese,
Let me find a metaphor for this. Before you were born Before I knew you were to be born (though you were already growing) I got bad news and sunk to my knees There was wine involved An escape North I get bad news today Not the 'escape North' kind But the 'want to stay in bed' kind I do get out of bed Because you were born And you are here Awake in the next room Waiting for me So these days, like today, When I trip backwards over an edge You're the net that's just a few feet down And that is a miracle. You are a fucking miracle.
Love,
Mama