Dear Ollie,
You were born at ten past four on a Tuesday morning, and I slept through it. Your dad called and I answered the TV remote.
By the time I got to the hospital you were six hours old and you already had opinions. You didn’t like the hat. You pulled it off, the nurse put it back on and told me babies can’t do that on purpose, and you did it twice more.
You’ve got your grandpa’s hands. Long fingers, square nails. He’d have said you were built for the piano and then bought you a baseball glove.
I don’t know who you are yet. Right now you’re asleep next to me on the couch, making a noise like a kettle. Whoever you’ve turned into, I hope you still won’t wear the hat.
Nana

