i had a dream last night of that little one. i was back in uganda and he was much bigger while still being very small. i held him and let him suck on the tip of my finger, he made the face of an old man who had yet to receive their dinner. irritated & confused. i couldn't blame him-- he entered this world long before he was every expected and his "source" of life was quickly gone. he was brought in by a saint and brought to me by a southern bell. i always thought i was brought to him.

today makes me think of him. Los Angeles is all to similar to kampala-- less crowded and a completely different ethnicity but still the same. still musky and dirty with the same smells and a similar passion. i've lived here all my life and i've always been confused while driving through this place, but once you've been lost in kampala on a boda LA is all the more beautiful. not because it's better but because they are the same.

there were days when we were riding through the streets and feeling a beauty unlike any other. it was peaceful and fast and i found myself breathing in the ride. but my heart was set on 3:00-- i wanted to be there when his eyes opened (even if he couldn't see me) and as I held his tiny body i would whisper

"You're stronger than we know, and weaker than we realize"

and as people would walk by & acknowledge the state of delight i was in i would whisper to them

"He is the greatest thing"

and today, i'm missing him