for you, everything

 I remember the day you were born.  Your mother said you looked like a tootsie roll in your swaddling blanket.  I was scared to death of you.  But I remember your first night home, your mother even more frightened of you than I was.  Your grandmother showed her how to hold you to her chest and hum to calm you down.  It was one of the most endearing things I had ever seen.  I remember how touched I was by it.

The first time I held you, I never wanted to let you go.  I hadn’t birthed you, but in a way I felt you were mine.  For the first few months I barely put you down.  I took you everywhere and showed you to everyone.  They all thought you were beautiful.  So did I.

I was there the first time you laughed.  You always woke up laughing.  And ….singing I guess you could call it.  I was there for your first step, your first tooth, your first word, your first sentence.  I taught you how to splash in the tub.  We danced, we played, we laughed.  I was “dad” but not.  I never wanted you to call me Aunt.

We grew up together, you and I.  I found a part of myself in you. 

Fifteen years of my life wasn’t asking a lot.  Not really.  I loved ever minute of it like I love you. 

But now, I am not part of you.  You have a family, and that is wonderful.  But, everytime you shut me out, my heart breaks a little more. 

I never gave birth to you, but I always felt like I was, at least for a little while, your mother.

~ by tracypaints on March 9, 2009.