THE PUBLIC SHELF

For the new baby, at 18

Hi, sweet one. You're eighteen now, which is impossible, because as I write this you're nine days old and asleep on my chest, and you weigh about as much as a bag of flour.

I wanted to tell you the story of the night you were born, because nobody tells you your own story, and you should have it.

There was a thunderstorm. A real one, the kind that knocks out power on whole streets. The hospital lights flickered twice. Your father, who is generally a calm man, became extremely not calm and started asking the nurse very loudly whether the generator had been tested recently.

You arrived at 3:12 in the morning, right in the middle of it, and you slept through the thunder. Completely. Your father did not sleep for three days.

I've thought about that a lot since. How the world was so loud, and you were so peaceful. I hope you're still like that. I hope you can find the quiet center of things when everything around you is crashing.

Whatever you're worried about today, whatever feels huge right now at eighteen, I want you to know where you come from. You come from people who stayed up all night just to watch you breathe.

We still would.

Mom

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