(It was snowy. And Eva wasn’t too long in the world.):
O Evabird, I love how dirty you get, and I love that you climb up the slide and that you hardly ever cry when you fall. I love that swings bore you and that you want to chew on sticks and chase pigeons and scream at passers-by. I love how when you stop (and you rarely ever stop) you stare up at the leaves and look up at the clouds. Ah my little love–how fearless and happy and enchanted you are; what a fierce and beautiful combination of qualities to take on the world.
The doctor weighed you and measured you and looked in your ears and looked in your eyes, and oh, she said, what’s she doing? Crawling, I said, and eating and pooping and laughing and standing and pointing. Pointing? the doctor said. That’s BIG. That’s language.
But then we left and you cried and cried (all those shots; your week-old cold; your days-old bellyache), and I bounced you up and down. Oh birdy, I said, what’s the matter? But you just yelled and yelled, and words meant what they might always mean: little more than what they weigh.