Dear Baby Boy,
I know it must feel as if I've forgotten you, down there, buried within the walls of my womb. I'm sure it's quiet. I have no checklists, no crib, no set of drawers cleared and waiting for petite pants and socks and sweaters. I have a set of glossy monochromatic photos pinned to the fridge. In the middle two, you're stretching thin arms above your head and smiling.
When your sister built a home from the same warm walls that house you, I spent slow summer days with my palm pressed to my belly, feeling for her, listening to her, humming sweet songs in hopes that her tiny ears might hear them.
Now, I spend mornings and afternoons and nights chasing her, and calling for her, and singing to her, and saying, "No my love, we mustn't," and "Yes, my love, I'm proud of you." It's loud out here. I'm moving too quickly to feel you.
I lay, for a moment or two and notice you turning. An arm, a knee, an elbow. A collection of tiny parts, not yet here, somewhere in-between. And I remember. And I smile. I cannot wait to meet you, baby boy.
I hope that soon, when you've had a bit more time to grow long and full in your skin, that you'll hear my voice quietly singing your sister to sleep. You'll kick wide and far and bump against my womb, and then my belly, and then her legs as they wrap tightly around my waist. And she'll reach down, and dribble something sticky onto the forgiving skin that surrounds you. "Tiny baby, where are you?" she'll say. And we'll wait.