One.

One.

If there ever was a child made so specifically and perfectly for a mom, my one is that for me.

One.

As far as numbers go, it’s the smallest. Anything lower is, well, not a number.

One.

For some, the idea of one, equals less.

Perhaps even a lack of abundance.

One.

For some, not enough.

For some, sorrow.

Not for me.

One makes me the richest person there ever was.

One over flows.

One embodies perfection.

One teaches me more than thousands have.

The words to describe my one? 

They are endless.

I’m a mother of one.

My body put me in my place.

I.

Am.

Grateful.