Eight

I can't believe it's been eight years since the day you were born.

On the one hand, it was only yesterday that we went to the hospital and you had to be delivered a month earlier than planned. That surreal feeling of being thrown into something none of us could ever be prepared for, like being transplanted into a TV show.

On the other hand, it was a lifetime ago. So much water has passed under the bridge. Life before you, your little brother and your little sister feels like something that belonged to someone else entirely. I barely recognise the person who inhabited this mortal vessel I occupy.

Was it really eight years ago that I first held your hand in mine?

Has it only been eight years ago since I first became a dad?

These two facts do not reconcile. They are a paradox. Just like the idea that we will never meet again.

We visited your grave, sang "Happy Birthday" and had ice cream after. Your six year old, razor sharp brother would arrest me on that statement and correctly inform everyone that we actually had frozen yoghurt. Your four year old, lead singer little sister called it the best day ever.

Wherever you are, we'll always be with you.