I have been dreaming you since the second grade when I decided to name you after an American Girl character when I learned the name meant intense happiness, which was something I didn’t feel often as a child with a brain riddled by ghosts nobody wanted to talk about. Felicity with the pigtailed strawberry blonde braids and freckles. Felicity with her nose cozied in the spine of a book. Felicity flying through monkey bars. Felicity memorizing state capitals and dog breeds. Felicity, Felicity, Felicity. I named you the year my baby brother was born a blob of colic and need, but he was my little blob to take care of when Mom was busy, too flattened by postpartum depression. He was mine, cuddling a stuffed tiger, slobbering on its ear. My Felicity, my intense happiness, I am sorry. I haven’t made the right life to rock you to sleep. Each day I sleep in as late as I feel like, go to sleep when gravity is a blanket pushing my muscles into bed. Each day I cook foods I’m told children don’t like (chana masala, pasta with asparagus and peas, sesame tofu). Each day I read and write poems in the quiet guest bedroom, three pit bulls swaddled around me. Each day I take a small pill to ward off your gaining breath. Some days, Felicity, I am intensely happy.