If it is to be that you are my last baby, you are my perfect end.
If it is to be that you're the last one to turn the two lines pink, I can still close my eyes and feel the ways you moved inside me.
If it is to be that you are the last wrinkly newborn that I pull up onto my chest, I'll forever hold how easy the transition seemed for you. Like you hadn't just left one world for another. Just as content on my skin as beneath it.
And if you really are my final birth, I'll always feel so lucky, undeserved, and amazed to have done it three times... and always want to do it a fourth.
If you're the last one to live on my left hip, I'll always remember the weight. The way our bodies click together like puzzle pieces, your ducky blonde hair under my chin when you're shy, and your breath on my neck when you're sleepy.
The last one to mispronounce strawberry and yogurt.
The last one to plop your heavy bottom into my lap as if it was yours-- no ask, no hedging, just thud! right down. I am yours.
The babiest brother who made the trio whole.
If you're the last to wean, my milk still won't dry up. How can I blame my body for holding on too?
If it is to be that you are my last baby, I've memorized it all, soaked it into my muscles and bones til they ache each night. But because you are my last baby I know that even the memorized memories dim, and even the babiest baby grows. I'm certain I will love who you will become, but each day forward is a day further away from you now, my last baby.
If it is to be.
