Emily Dickenson 'Hope is a thing with feathers'

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity
It asked a crumb of me.


Well, now, little love. What to say when there is so much to say?

I miss you every day.
Your Auntie TW is getting married next September
Your Uncle Brian is getting married in August
You will have a sibling we call The Squid in July
You died because of a quirk, a new or spontaneous mutation of Noonan's Syndrome.
It may happen again but apparently not now.
I still smell your sweet baby smell when I close my eyes.