I missed your birthday, baby girl, I can’t believe it. You’d be five months old now. Meemaw would be trying to feed you some gross shit she cooks and I’d be hollering at her.
Maybe you’d be trying to sit up, but mostly just toppling over. You’d definitely have your sweet, squishy baby fat. Dimples in your elbows and on each of your tiny fingers. You’d be cooing and making funny noises.
I think about you every day, every second of every fucking day, Tallulah. I would do anything to get you back again.
I’ll come out and see you soon. The bluebonnets are blooming. I love you.