Sunday, 12 April 2015

to my daughter


       You're crying in your room right now, laying on your bed I expect, clutching the covers against your hot wet cheeks.  I wish I knew what was going on for you - you seem to spend so much time teetering on the brink of tears or shouting, with pink eyes and a trembling lip, or venomous glares and crossed arms.  

I find myself wondering whether this is the beginning of your journey into adulthood - is your body coursing with hormones that are messing with your mood?  I still think of you as a little child, so that seems odd - how can I think picture you dealing with pms when you still love to be tickled til you scream for mercy?  You still pretend to believe in Father Christmas and the tooth fairy - that doesn't seem compatible with my buying you deodorant and your fretting about spots.

Sometimes it's difficult to find ways to show you how much I care - but it's so important to me that you know.  It used to be so easy, so simple, so natural, but these days you don't often want to sit on laps or hold hands.  When I hug you at bedtime I find myself hanging on for just one extra second, breathing deep and taking the scent of you into my lungs, your hair soft against my cheek, your thin frame next to my heart.

And you'll always be next to my heart.

No matter how tall you get.
No matter what colour you dye your hair.
No matter what you shout at me.
(No matter what I shout at you.)

You'll always be mine.

You always have been.

I'll never forget the hours after we first looked at one another - I lay in the dark, stroking the strands of dark hair on your head, touching your cheek with one finger, hardly able to believe you were real.  Your skin was so soft I thought I must be dreaming you, and as I watched you sleep I knew that you had changed me already.

I love you honey bee.

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