Today Roby ate soup with more passion than I’ve seen some people profess love. It was incredible and beautiful and fantastic. That that soup was made from chicken that lived entirely on our land, cooked into special broth by Abby, and served to Roby by her grandmother was just icing.

That metaphor doesn’t feel right, it was more like perfect, natural light cast upon an already perfect scene, brightening the whole thing.

When she was born, Roby wanted things, yes, but she had a difficult time expressing that desire beyond simply crying. While she still cries when she isn’t being provided with the things she wants, she has other subtler and more delicious ways of expressing her wants. 

Her passion for soup is such that she sings out for it, reaching with all her might and stretching across the table with grubby soupy fingers. Her excitement is such that you have to be careful she doesn’t fling the soup everywhere but her mouth in her joy. It’s the best. 

I cannot even fathom what fresh broth would taste like to her, let alone a bit of beef, a sweet potatoe, the first day of spring. 

Everythings new not just for her, but for me and anyone lucky enough to get to spend time with her.