X marks the spot where we painted the dining room bright green. Then repainted a much better green.
X marks the spot where we put up wainscoting in the nursery, even though we were still calling it the "spare room."
X marks the spot where we carried you through the front door, followed by your sister two years later.
X marks the spots where you nursed on the couch, napped in the swing, bounced in the jumperoo.
X marks the spots where you formed your first smile, ate your first foods, took your first steps.
X marks the corner in your room where you bury yourself in your books.
X marks the spot where you played with the incrediblock for 45 minutes straight.
X marks the spot where I cried tears of joy at your first words, then of sadness when those words no longer came.
X marks the spot where you spent the 800 hours of therapy that we all hated and still aren't sure did any good.
X marks the spot on the lawn where you ran and splashed in the water, squealing with pure joy.
X marks the spots of so much laughter and tears, heartache and wonder, questions and hope.
X marks the spot where you crashed into the wall, resulting in stitches, but where you still run flying by.
X marks the moments of your life, held close in these walls.
And now, X marks an empty spot, waiting for us to sign our names.
But do not worry. I have a bag full of X's to bring with us.
