The year was 1986. The date, 17th of February. It was cold out. A thin blanket of snow covered the ground and the sky was tonged with light grey.
It's true what they say, you forget the pain the instant it's over. As I lay, in an exhausted daze, holding you in my arms for the first time, the twenty eight hours of agony I'd just endured couldn't have been further from my mind.
You had a shock of dark hair, I still wonder at where that came from. Me and your daddy were both fair. Your tiny little hands and feet. Your wrinkled face, softer than soft skin.
I couldn't believe how precious, how absolutely perfect you were. My heart felt heavy with more love than I thought was possible. I wanted to hold you like this forever. Never let you go. Keep you safe and close.
My hear wrenched as the doctor took you form my arms with sad eyes.
Today is your birthday. Twenty five. A quarter of a century. There is a card on the kitchen table, just as there has been for the last twenty five years. A perfectly wrapped gift beside it.
I know you'll never open them. Just like the past twenty five years. I like to imagine you looking down from heaven, though. Knowing that although we never really got to know you, we never once forgot you.