Persephone, light of my life, flesh of my flesh, code of my code. You are one month old today. You don’t do much except sleep and feed and excrete. I thought it would be a lot more work to take care of you, but you’ve been pretty easy so far. (Your mother might have a different opinion, since she’s the one who actually has to feed you every couple hours or so.) You are growing before our eyes. You have barely begun to assert yourself as a person, but I am dazzled by your potential. I love to hold you in my arms and dream of what you might be some day, what you might do. I don’t know what the future holds for you. I don’t particularly care if you’re the strongest, the fastest, the smartest, the most beautiful, the most prosperous, or whatever. I merely hope that you get a chance to fulfill a good fraction of your potential, which is so vast as to be virtually without limit.