March 01st, 2017

Dad and Daughter

My daughter turned seven last month.
  And I already miss six and five and four and three and two and one.
  And even before one--like on the day before we knew she existed--
  Her mom, washing dishes,
            looked radiant and shiny from the sun hitting her face through the window.
I knew.  She knew.
And 13 months after the twins were born, a third would follow behind.

My daughter turned seven last month.
   And I mourn six and five and four and three and two and one.
   I miss when her hair was too short for ponytails, 
     her hands too small to hold my palm,
     her feet so tiny she could dance on my shoes and waltz with me around the room.

My daughter turned seven last month.
   And even though eight and nine and ten and eleven and twelve are ahead
   I hold on to six and five and four and three and two and one.
Memories seared into my heart as sepia-toned photographs,
   Images fading year after year like a single cirrus floating past the horizon.

My daughter turned seven last month.
   And I'm holding tight
   Hoping my hold slows her grow.  
   Hoping that seven feels longer than
       six, five, four, three, two, one....
       combined.