Abraham,
You are always someone new to me. What was a certainty about you yesterday is no longer true. A week ago you hated being changed and protested mightily when we put you on the table. Now, you smile serenely and regard the photos on the wall. You Mom and I have both put our heads close to yours, trying to see what you see. Are you too in love with the colors of Thailand? Those photographs are promises and reminders.

Pa-

Abraham,
Because your Grandma always wants to know, today you weighed 10 pounds and 2 ounces. We can only weigh you on Tuesdays, when you get the casts off. You are a trooper about this very intrusive process. You let it be known that you are not that fond of it, and then you settle down and suck on your Mom’s finger furiously, like a chain smoker on coffee break.

Today in the casting room with you there was a boy named Thomas who had fallen off his couch over the weekend while on some small adventure. He broke his elbow. He and his Dad thought they were coming for a cast and got scheduled for surgery instead. Tonight the orthopedic doctor was going to tack part of the broken bone back in place. Thomas is three and didn’t seem to register this sudden change. Thomas’s Dad felt it. I felt it, too. I would guess every parent in the world felt it.

Bones are brittle and they break. Hearts, they shatter. I cannot truly imagine the phone call back home to Thomas’s Mom. It’s bad enough to hear it, but it’s quite another to say it. You are giving voice to your greatest fears, the dangers you cannot foresee and forestall, the fact that superhuman love does not give you superhuman powers, only makes you superhumanly frail.

Be well Thomas.

Pa-

Abe,
Your Grandma T sent this sweater, a relic from my own infancy. You look like such a little man to me.

You woke very early this morning in a certain amount of discomfort that we attribute to last night’s dinner, tom yum soup. We give you fennel in an eye-dropper and bounce you all over. Relief comes in small explosions. It was that kind of day.

Pa-

Abraham,
I wish I spent more time writing to you about these first days. There is a lot to tell about the casts on your legs that aim to straighten your off-kilter ankles. There’s a lot to tell about how we talk with you and you with us. You cry without tears and we practice guessing what you mean. We get better, but too slowly. You sleep a lot and hate to wake, much like your Dad. You like to bounce and hear my lullabies. Your smile is like the sun. Life is amazing and blazing fast.

People ask about fatherhood. It is a silly question really, as if there is some generic way to summarize this earthquake for shopping line conversations. Still, I try…

I say, “Emotional.” Your smiles light up dark corners of my heart. Your disquiet aches in me more deeply than anything I’ve ever known. I feel connected to parts of me and parts of the world I hadn’t known before. That’s good. And that’s hard at times too.

You are seismic.

Pa-

Abraham,
It was a week ago now that your Mom started the long process of churning you out into this world. I only commemorate that anniversary because it has been the most strange and amazing week. The greatest day of my life, the Saturday of your arrival, was followed quickly by perhaps the worst day ever, in which I despaired for being able to comfort you, support you, be the man and father I feel I ought to be. Despite the many hours I spent with my hand resting on your belly home and the many long talks we had across that time and space, I still wasn’t ready for the full force of fatherhood. You came out swinging. That’s my boy.

I think you are a sea creature. You have the ocean’s restlessness, a need for movement that you inherited from your Mom and me. Waves comfort you when you cry. We swing and rock and bounce you like a boat. You like rolling waves and stormy seas. You like big water, like your Dad and your Dad’s Dad.

Everyday we get better acquainted. We understand your language better and how you like to spend your time: eating, sleeping and surfing in air. We have discovered that you like Volvo’s too and are redeemable for free Thai food. Tonight we toasted you with mussaman curry and pad eggplant, a gift from the sweet nameless lady at our favorite Thai place. She attributes your full head of shiny hair to her cooking. She is just another beautiful star in your constellation.

G’night little man,

Pa-

Abe,
Today you and I danced to:

• “Windfall” by Son Volt
• “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley
• “Big Indian” by The Dandy Warhols
• “Tomorrow Comes Today” by Gorillaz
• “Let The Cool Goddess Rust Away” by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

That means it was a good day.

Sweetest dreams my friend,
Pa-

P.S. I also read to you about the rocks and minerals of New England: micas, garnets, feldspars and quartz. You slept in my lap and the words fell around you like raindrops.