My book. It is in my hands. I walk around the backyard staring at it, taking it in. It is real. A thing I have dreamed about but could never truly imagine. It is real. I spend about ten minutes by myself walking around the coral tree, stopping by the sage, feeling the cover, opening to random pages and reading. It is mine. I made this thing.

I am not a parent. I've never birthed a child. This is the closest thing to a child I've had. And it's no coincidence that it took nine months to write after fifteen years of musing, writing, outlining, living, grieving, loving, growing up and growing down. I have done something big and sweet and finally all mine. I am touched deeply by the many loves, lives and hands that it has taken to get me here. I miss my parents, but I know that if they were still here, this book would not be in my hands.

I am flooded with love and bittersweet longing.