You came, skidding, into this world at 2 pounds, 10 ounces,
Screaming, at 9:17 this morning.
A wing, a prayer and
With every fibre of our beings holding on to you.
A surprising little boy, when we thought you were a girl.
Red, scrawny, impossibly tiny and we still cheered.
Filled with tubes and air, eyes not wide open, but you are here.
A Salava baby is never late, although.
Through this long night I have thought of you.
Closed my eyes and wished and willed.
Lit candles and called out light.
Called down not fairy godmothers but strong angels.
Do not be sweet, little boy.
Be hard and strong and fiesty.
Your great-great-grandfather, a bear of a man worked with his hands every day of his life,
And still found time to draw.
Your grandfather restarted his life at 46 with 2 small boys that called him home.
To be sure, the heaven’s opened up and they all watched.
And sent their gifts.
Your siblings and your cousins, 8 unnamed and a little boy named Gabriel.
An entire communion of saints took breaths for you, and they did not say be sweet.
This is not the place for sweet. Learn to breathe. We will work on calculus and cooking later.
Start with this single hard thing.
Small, tiny, and hands strong enough to grip a heart across the miles.
A man it is a fine thing to be, so be one.
Find dimples, roly-poly like you should.
Do not forget your backbone of earth’s iron.
Be strong and brave and so very, very fierce.