This was the place where I first met you. Where I held you. Where I kissed your newborn flesh and whispered I love you.
Now it is rubble. Ruined and broken. Replaced. To think how many were born here. How many died.
Did it reach its quota?
To me, the memories are blessed and few. Visiting a mother as she waits news of her husband, getting wired for my own sleep study, taking birthing classes, making your dad get his head checked after he bonked it, and getting hooked on the Bachelorette while waiting in the waiting room.
But mostly, I remember you, my son. How I prayed for you! How I longed for you. How I was amazed that you came to me. Here. And I called you Bug-a-boo. And it stuck.
I love you, Bug!