It was just yesterday

I was babysitting you at my carriage house.

You were young, not yet quite one,

and you were upset. I cannot remember why.

You were crying, could not stop, so I checked

your diaper, I tried to feed you.

Then, somehow, we just ended up

with your cheek resting against mine.

You calmed, then found peace,

and so I expected you to move away,

find something to look at or something to grab.

Or maybe you would make the move to wiggle down to the floor.

But you did not shimmy an inch.

You stayed -- we stayed -- cheek to cheek for a long time.

I remember looking in the mirror thinking

I will never love anyone as much as I love you.

And I need you to know, even now -- especially

after the years when you were uncomfortable with me

and I was afraid to ease the distance between us --

that that is still, in many ways, true.

I do not have a child, I will never have a child,

but you were the first child I ever had

and I will always love you, and love you,

and then love you more.