“Oh! There it is! One of her canine teeth finally came through!”

I am changing your diaper on the passenger seat before we head out of town. The service was beautiful and emotional and I am feeling so much as we prepare to head home. Your older sister sat and held my hand most of the time and told her Pa she loved him whenever he started to get choked up. You missed the entire thing—it was past nap time so your Dada took you on a drive. I was thankful, but I missed you.

You were busy, though, resting so one of those terrible teeth you’ve been working on for something like six months could finally emerge. I look down at you squirming in your black dress and you suddenly seem so much older. You look up at me and exclaim, “All done! All done! All done!” as I finish up.

This is how it goes—these things I get caught up thinking will last forever and sometimes require too much effort—they come to an end. You will not remember your Mama’s Grandmommy, who shared your middle name and championed more causes and big ideas than any other person I know personally. As I grieve, I realize deep down I believed she would never go. She took her death sentence of a month or two and turned it into years. She was super human somehow, and I had time to figure out how to have a consistent relationship with her in the overwhelm of new motherhood when many of our theories seemed to clash on the surface.

I hold your twenty-something pound body, warm and full of vitality, to my chest and smell your hair before I strap you back into your seat, where you dance most of the drive home. I love you, Reed Camille.