In Memory

I wrote this to read at his memorial service but I never was able to do so:

               I was sure he was a boy at eleven weeks, but had asked if he was a girl, if his name could still be Atticus. My father, my brother, and my son were all born the year of the rabbit, twenty-four years apart each. We believed in no special significance to it, but it was a fun observation to make. He was born on Easter, at 2 p.m., which was when we were supposed to be having lunch with the family. In the Western Zodiac, he was a Taurus, the ox, just like his sister, and also just like his sister he was stubborn and decided that he wanted to stay breech. A symbol of Easter, the Easter Lily, holds significance because his sister’s middle name is Lily.

                He was a strong boy; he held his head up before we left the hospital; he could stand gripping the rails of the crib at four months, and he was getting up on all fours attempting to crawl before five months, although he never did crawl. He and his sister loved each other. She always wanted to help with him and he always wanted to know where she was. He would fuss, wanting to know where his sister was and at times, she would bring him the exact toy he wanted to appease him when he cried.

                He was a good eater, a great sleeper - but only when daddy put him down for a nap - and everyone loved him and was charmed by his beautiful, big brown eyes. He was such a momma’s boy, but I would be the last to complain. A mother finds it hard to accept that her child is in a better place, because she knows that in her arms is the safest.

                He was more prone to smiling than to fussing, although he could be particular. He liked to get kisses and be held by everyone, including his sister that would demand it. If he had to be set down, he wanted to be able to see everyone. He was and is so loved, my precious little man.