Roughly estimate the many ways that I’ve loved you: take your pre-mature birth and add a week of sleepless nights and hand-holding whispers, add all the nights you shared the bed with mom and me, add to that the clothes, shoes, popsicles, chickens, noodles, fries, blocks and bottles and bottles of coconut water you drink at nap and bed times, add that video mom has of me making you laugh—knocking myself in the head with a pillow—and the video of you making us laugh—comically squinting, take the time your throat started to close off, subtract the fear, add the drive to the hospital, add the hand-holding whispers again, add the times we go for walks down to the river, add the time we got caught in the rain, add the time I carried you home asleep in my arms, subtract the time that you didn’t want to go home, add the excitement I have when I come home, add the excitement you have when I come home, add the fact that I come home, subtract the times that I don’t come home, subtract the things I’m too ashamed to mention, multiply by the number of times I prayed, thought, cried, laughed, watched, sacrificed for you, divide this with your sister, and you’ll find a rough estimate of all the neurons/thoughts/heart/blood cells/tears/whatever the physical manifestations of joy are devoted to you.