Girl.

Six years old, 40 pounds and 40 inches tall

We got all dressed up tonight

My high heels sink into the wet earth

I parked too close to the pole so I have to wriggle you out and you stay asleep on my shoulder

 I am tired, too 

Missing the ritual and the ease it brought. The comfort of sharing, of creating and then doing.

The car rolled forward, the doors propped open, the bed readied for your tiny body. One of us carrying you, one the bags and leftovers in the car from this or that celebration. The coming together. The not sinking down into the earth. The heels not scrapping the edge of the stairs under our weight. The scarf not tangling at my feet as I try to navigate us back home.

I miss him only in the tiniest of moments now, only in the logistics, only in the carrying of heavy things. To and from the car. The loading and unloading. 

How many more times? At what age, what weight, what height? Will I know it’s the last time? Will you stop falling asleep in the car? Will I wake you and ask you to walk? Will you ask me to carry you and I, unable?

Will I be able to help you with your heavy things? We’ll work together on the logistics, on the loading and unloading. And I’ll try to make your life easier: propping doors and readying your surroundings for wherever you decide to lay your body down. For wherever you decide to go. 

I’ll do my best. Which will come up short. We inevitably do that for each other. Except when we rise above. Above and beyond. That is my wish for you.

My girl. You’ll always be my girl.

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