But I’ll also admit thoughts of your sister Amelia flowed freely through my mind. Maybe it was seeing your twin cousins, born just weeks apart from her, that sparked it. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I always cry at baby blessings now, thinking of the time we blessed her in that hospital room. Or maybe it was the beautiful musical rendition of I Am a Child of God that we heard in church. Whatever it was, she was there during your blessing, Owen. She was probably sitting in the pew right next to me, desperately wanting to keep my clammy hands from shaking.

She’s gone, but you’re here. It doesn’t really make complete sense in my head, but it doesn’t have to I suppose. I love taking care of you and kissing those chubby cheeks of yours either way. You aren’t her and I wouldn’t want you to be.

You are my baby. My little Owen.

Your little baldish head, the lint you gather in-between your fingers, the cooing sounds you make when you start to smile. They’re all mine to take care of and love. God doesn’t make mistakes, and he certainly knew what he was doing when he sent your pensive little soul to me to watch over.

You get me, Owen. I look into your eyes and you don’t feel like you need to smile back to make everything okay. You’re fine with the emotions just being there, and I appreciate that. You’re a wise, old soul that is helping me heal. You know it might take a while, and you’re patiently waiting through it with me.

I love you, my little Owen. As we snuggled in bed this morning with our faces close together to fall back asleep, I felt a wave of gratitude and pure joy come over me. And of course I let a tear or two slip past my eyelids.

You’re a brave old soul, my little one.