Two things struck me when the doctor first placed you in my arm: red, rosy lips and unruly eyebrows. Your face was crumpled up but you didn’t cry. You just looked around, eyes glossed, chin quivering. You’ve always been the bravest child.
Last week you whispered to me that you had something important to ask me. Would I help you write your first love letter? And of course I did, it might be the only time I am ever asked such an honor. We crafted your thoughts at the desk into a river of words and you signed your name in cursive.
After you sealed the envelope, you looked up at me, brow furrowed, and quietly asked, ‘What if she doesn’t like me back?’ ‘Well, then you are still bold and you are still brave.’ You nodded slowly in agreement and then added thoughtfully, ‘Plus I have nice lips.’ Yes, son, you have the greatest lips ever.
