Abraham,
Today, while your Mom was out, you and I walked the lake. We stalked ducks, startled squirrels and and studied the big excavators they have there, churning over the mud to fix a water line. Back home, we hung out in the hammock. The rabbits have returned to the yard, bigger and more cautious than last spring. “Ra-ra,” you said. All your favorite words are repeated syllables. They are my favorite words as well. While I made dinner you played in the backyard, relocating pebbles and knocking over the mop. We ate together, sharing frozen peas. You ate rice with your fingers and used two spoons to flip it around your tray. Before bed, your Mom and I read stories with you. There's a bedtime routine called “getting the giggles out.” Tonight I got you laughing by reading “My Aunt Came Back,” in a screechy voice with a weird chuckle at the end. You made me read it three times. Yesterday you stood up on your own for the first time.
We washed up here one year ago today. Back in the days before we sailed over the country I wrote in my journal “Today I saw K. and Abe together and wanted desperately to join my family. They are both so beautiful and strong and robust…” My heart ached and my body was so tired of living it refused food and water.
Those days are a long time gone.
Here we are. Every day is rich and full. Every day is a wonder.
Pa-