Your world is filled with Faith, little Anthony. Such tiny features and that big name, shoes to fill. I have witnessed it in your world, visible and tangible at your birth, blanketing the walls of your home. In the presence of such giant faith, belief, and love, I cannot help but smile. Your home is built on benevolence, floorboards of trust as natural as breath. I spend many of my hours at births and with freshly born babies like you, but the timing of your newness bemuses as my own once newborn, the oldest of my four, readies to cross a threshold into numbers that take up all of our fingers when we count.
Ten. Decade. It does not seem like yesterday that he arrived. A lifetime ago for sure. His inches will surpass mine soon, and without the photographs of his early weeks we might not recall him at the size of your infinitesimal, profound joy before my lens. We wipe tears at the loss of the young child when they turn ten, a right of passage into birthdays with two digits, but delight as the tear dries and the corners of our mouths turn upwards at the reminder that the baby remains and equal joy awaits.