Ode to Tiny Tim, Born on the Fourth

A deeply personal tribute to my nephew, Tim, whom I helped raise during a challenging season of our lives.

You came in July, when the sky cracked open with fireworks and I cracked open with responsibility. Not quite mine to mother, but mine enough to carry in arms, in chores, in those bone-deep sleepless hours where the fans hummed lullabies and my body said “enough” but my heart whispered, “just one more hour.”

Your sister still clutched her bottle, your mother clutched her pain, and I held the space between wrapping wounds, cooking without salt, stretching rice like it was ribbon, swaddling you while I swallowed hunger.

You were quiet, like morning fog. Hair curled with secrets, eyes like wet marbles that always seemed to be listening to something older than us.

You smiled like it hurt to wake up, but joy came anyway, slow, soft, faithful. And I was stretched thin between toilet breaks with doors ajar and laundromat waiting benches, between being a sister, a shadow-mother, and a body slowly breaking because no one thought to ask how much I’d given.

But I’d do it again.

Because now you're tall, strong, lifeguard-tan and silent-bold. Girls blush at the mention of your name and I grin half proud, half protective, half-hoping you only ever give your heart to someone who understands that boys like you are rare and built on the quiet work of women who loved before they were thanked.

So if someday you read this and wonder why rice and chicken soup smell like love, or why July always feels like more than fireworks just know: Your beginning was carved in the shape of sacrifice. And you, Tim, were always worth it.

Author's Note

This poem is drawn from lived experience. Feel free to share how the emotions land for you, or if any part resonates with your own family journey. No need to correct grammar—I want the voice to feel personal and raw.