When they were born, from the depths of immigrant love and sweat, they were presented to the world like monuments. One was named after his father, who was named after his father, and in continuum. The other, she was named after the courageous woman in her village, after the winds, the Ocean, the skies, and the ethos. They were born like miracles. Wailing like the hurricanes and the thunder. Their father couldn’t hold them because his hands were too entrenched in the soil. They were born like the yin and the yang. Raised, not by gender or custom, but by love and wonder. Raised by the profound inquiry of existence. The children of mine. I have never known love and wonder like this. Seeing your faces, hearing your laughters. I write this years in the past. Im too eager to be a father to not write you in advance. I love you.