You arrived on a hot July day in Lubbock Texas. That’s a different kind of hot. The cement shimmers and seatbelts burn. Everyone is cranky and people cope by dreaming about Colorado. Snow banks and frosty mornings become everyone’s secret wish. But there we were. A green and tan hospital. Nice lady with red eyeglasses and name tags. An elevator ride and your brother clutching a purple gift bag with a green dinosaur peeking out the top. So excited to meet you. Gripping my hand with his. Me gripping back. A walk down a hall and a door with a chart. Your beautiful mommy in the bed, exhausted, and you. A tiny body in a too big bed. Soft white fabric and a striped blue hat. I swaggered over feeling like a pro. Took you confidently. So sure I knew. Knew what it would be like to fall in love with a little boy again. Knew what it would feel like to have my heart grow. To make room for you there. And discovered I was wrong. You took my breath away. My heart wouldn’t cooperate. The world stopped. In that room with beepers beeping and buzzers buzzing and family hugging I was alone with you. Just us two. With your wise little eyes looking at me and that smirk that said you already knew too. Your swagger outdid mine. Your heart already had me settled in. Change of address forms submitted. I was late to the whole affair. Playing catch up. I curled my fingers around yours and accepted the org chart. You at the top. Me at the bottom. Forever. And what a place to be.