On April 2, 1989 your water broke, but you wanted to wait. We couldn’t imagine what for; So your mother and I rode the roads. We bumped the bumps just to jog your willingness. Still you refused to attend your life.
Then the doctors called us in. PIT got the process going even as the procession paraded in. Nana and Grampa and Aunt Nicole, even Bii Chadbourne were all there with the doctors and nurses that come part and parcel of every birthing center. Then you popped into the world. What you wanted was an audience.
You were born.
This poem was written in honor of my son. Today is his 31st birthday.