Today is the anniversary of when I went into labor with you. Last year I stared up at the moon and asked you to make your appearance. As I walked inside, my water broke. On the day you were born I sat on stairs outside of the hospital with a friend who had come to visit; I had left you with my mom inside and for the first time since I had discovered I was pregnant, I was alone. Valparaiso smoldered around us – the fire that had started the day prior was the largest in the city’s history and I was a new mother, heavy with the realization that I would never really be alone again.