You are five years old and you had your tonsils out today. It was a brief procedure and, no less than an hour after they wheeled you back, I am holding you in the recovery room. I am laying in your hospital bed pinned beneath the weight of your warm, sleepy body. We are nestled in a heap of starchy blankets. And while it may seem odd to some, others will understand. I am pretending, in this darkened room filled with beeping monitors, that this is the day you were born. I am gazing at your face and breathing deeply with my nose buried in your hair. I'm caressing your palm and watching with wonder as your small hand wraps around my finger. I delight at your dark fringe of lashes and cupid bow lips.
Oh, I wish I had been there little one. I think a part of me will always grieve those moments I missed. But there is no doubt, in this moment, that you are exactly where you belong.
