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.