I understand you don’t feel the same way most people do. I understand that you don’t understand me the way other people do. Because you’re different. It’s just you. You’re different in the way you’re heart had a hole in it when you were born. Mom always told me you were just leaving space for someone special. You’re different in the way your arm is always bent at your side. Dad said it’s like that so you can cover your heart easier, to keep all the love inside of you. You’re different in the way you’ll always be small. The doctors say it’s because you want to always be held. You’re different for the way your eyes squint and your head tilts when you smile. The other kids say it’s because He doesn’t love you, because God doesn’t love you. But I do. I do love you. I love the way you don’t even care that other kids are mean to you. I love how your little hands can only grasp two of my fingers. I love the way you’re so full of life, but I have my theories too. I think you’re so full of life, because you don’t have that much of it to live. I know you don’t understand what I’m saying, but I can always sing you to sleep because sounds sooth you. I love you the same way normal kids love to fit in. With an unbearable amount of desire that it even makes me cry sometimes. But how can I tell you that you mean so much to me> How am I supposed to tell you it hurts me more than you when the little kids push you around on the playground? How am I supposed to tell you I love you, when you don’t even know who I am. So I’ll write to you. I’ll be your human diary, the film maker of your life. I will remind you that I love you, and that almost everyone does. I’ll remind you of the little things too, like the way you love the summer, or when the leaves start to change color, back to normal, the way everything was. I’ll write to you about rainy days when you just stayed in and played, because the cold wasn’t good for you.I’d tell you about the summer’s too when swimming was all you would do. The same way you would only watch “Toy Story” because you wanted to be a hero like Buzz. You didn’t know that you were a hero, you were a miracle. Six years was double what the doctors expected, so I wrote you 2,123 letters. One for everyday you lived to prove the doctors wrong. One for every miracle that was given to me and you. 2,123 letters stamped and sealed to send away with you. Always is somewhere far I’m sure, I only wish that I knew where. I don’t know heaven’s address, I just put a stamp hoping it will get there, somewhere there with you. I left a returning address though, in case you want to write me too.