Sometimes when I wake in the early hours of the morning, I recall a dream where you are doing something you cannot do. You are playing quietly in your room while we are sleeping. You crawl down the hallway to wake us up. You are walking in front of me down the sidewalk.
Sometimes I imagine you doing these things in my wake. I try to see you and your body different. I wonder how or if it would be different. If you didn’t have cerebral palsy.
Would you be taller? Would you weigh more? Would you have the same perfect, infectious smile or the same wild, sandy-blonde coloured hair? What would your voice sound like when you said my name? ‘Mama. I love you.’ Would it be soft and sweet like your big, open-mouthed kisses? Would you love me differently?
I wonder if you ever imagine yourself differently. Singing into a microphone toy like your sister. Climbing into our laps or jumping on your bed. Running freely to kick a ball. Shouting at your friends/teammates. Hugging. First.
It is not a longing. But a wonder. My mind imagines things that will not be. I love you as you are. My favourite little boy. In the whole wide world. My Sebastian.
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