I wrote on of these for my nephew. now i can write one for my niece.

on the day that you were born (forgive the terrible rhyme my little Amelia)

i had seen your big brother, all legs and arms and smiles, and i had spoken to your grandma, she'd been worried for a while. i was out and about, as busy as can be, but you were long away, and seemed very far to me. in a sudden rush, you came into this world, and a new hope, a new life, was unfurled. then i got to hold you, so small in my arms, i looked upon your face and was instantly charmed. my beautiful amelia, i'm so glad that you're here, the night is long away and there's nothing yet to fear.  

An Idea. A Darft.

I think I've been up for a while, I can no longer sleep at well night. For that matter, I can no longer sleep well in a bed, mine has been made-up with fresh linen for well over a week now, pristine as they day I made it. I've taken to napping in my favourite armchair, I can breathe more easily sitting upright. The armchair also has the advantage of prime locality, being close to the bathroom, which age has forced me to visit with alarming frequency, the kitchen and the only outfacing window in my apartment. As I have taken to spending long periods of the day staring out at the sky, and sleeping in the afternoon sun, the window has become increasingly important. It also comforts me to know that should I expire in my armchair, someone will probably notice... sooner or later.

  

I like this time of morning, still dark and soothingly quiet. Soon the neighbours will begin to wake, and with consciousness will come the muddled sound of dozens of televisions, and kettles, and microwaves - not to mention the first conversations and arguments of the day. I don't think the walls between the apartments here were bricked, like everything else in this place, inexpensive and easily replaced. In any case, the lives of the people who share this block of units, are relentlessly noisy. But for a short while, every morning, I am the only person alive in the world. The only sound comes from the whirring of the old, indomitable Kelvinator, and steady tick of the of the Bakelite clock, as noisy as it ever was.