Some mornings, your sister and I sit at the kitchen table,
sharing a quiet breakfast of toast and jam.
These mornings are a balm she won’t remember.
Some evenings, your father speaks to you,
eyes weepy at the things you already make him feel.
These evenings are tonics I will remind him to drink
when you are older and exhausting.
Some afternoons, your kicks gently remind me
of small miracles happening everywhere,
each with intent and purpose.
Soon you will see this.
These daily blessings, both unremarkable and wondrous.
The love that begets you is a fragrance
you will soon be baptized in.
It fills up every room.