Oh, how she loves him.
Perhaps even more than myself. I remember what it was like to love my own brother with my little girl gigantic heart and the loss after fifteen years of swooning was devastating. We know that parents grieve their offspring, but the genetic and familial tie of siblings, those people to whom we are most closely connected, is lightning in its' grasp. My daughter adores her three brothers though the youngest, our Amos, captures her whole heart. She loves him without expectation and resplendent adoration. These days, I am witness to that old love and my role as mama seems to pale in comparison.
To Amos, she wrote:
I love you to pieces because you are so funny and cool.
You are my baby brother and I love your glasses.
And I like being beside you on the trampolin so much.
And I am happy you leard how to walk.
And I'm so happy you are brother.
I love you so so so so so so so so so so so moch.
That, my friends, is love. The real kind. The kind that travels without even a touch of spiderweb strings. Love that always looks for the good, the glass that is half full, the other side of the rainbow, the end of the tunnel. I've learned how to love bigger and better and stronger from my own half pint and her story and path and choice of joy leaves me marveling that such natural fortitude exists in my universe.