Today you are three years old. When I get home I am going to bake you a three layer chocolate cake. It will be so rich and moist. Maybe I will even heat it up. The chocolate frosting will pool around the cake at the edges of my plate. It will melt in my mouth -- warm and gooey and chocolaty. It will paralyze my immune system, but I don't care. It's really a lousy cake for a three year old. No candy sprinkles. No trucks or dogs or balls or dinosaurs. But I guess you won't care either, because you aren't even here. The cake is for me. Then I will look at your pictures. You don't smile in any of them. Come to think of it, neither do I. Then I will visit you. Daddy will come too. But you won't call our names. You won't climb into our lap or laugh at the silly things Dad does. He's really not that funny anyways, but your brothers think he is. We will look at the headstone marking your tiny grave. It doesn't sound like a birthday at all.
Ian Jonathan we love you. You are God's gift.
i love you friend. wish i could come visit you!
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