It begins the moment you breathe in—  
that first, triumphant gasp,  
as if the lungs were made for it,  
and the world, taking a cue,  
welcomes you with open arms.  
A mother’s heart leaps,  
a father beams,  
and there, amid the hospital lights,  
a story is born.

From that day on,  
the blank pages of your life  
start to fill up, one after another,  
with the hurried scribble of years.  
There are first times  
scrawled in neat print,  
the inevitable blunders,  
awkward moments,  
laughter that rings like a bell,  
and quiet aches that never quite fade.

It's a remarkable thing, this book you're writing.  
I wonder, too,  
what my story will say  
as the ink runs out  
and the pages come to an end.  
It’s still early, of course—  
just a few chapters,  
not much to show yet  
but the promise of a decent plot.

But each life—  
each book—is a masterpiece,  
even the ones written in pencil,  
with eraser marks along the way.  
We’re all the main characters,  
whether we realize it or not,  
scribbling our own lines,  
thinking we’re not paying attention.  
But I hope, when it’s over,  
I’ll look back and say,  
"Not bad.  
Not bad at all."