I stand above her cot,
catching her eye as fading stars catch the first morning rays.
She is so small,
so minuscule that it is hard to believe she will be any bigger,
but she blooms,
and behind the cot,
by the window,
there she is again.
Precocious brat in a princess dress,
smiling, like she still believes it's all up to her,
and seated on the window sill,
waving away the wafting smoke from a secret cigarette,
there she is again.
She doesn't smile at that age,
but she still believes in something,
staring up at the vanishing night's sky,
choking on the tobacco and all of her secrets.
I turn back to the infant,
pure as driven snow,
at ease with how out of control everything is.
She just stares up,
curious, calm eyes,
the kind of cool, docile gaze that will never rest in my eyes again.
There is one more,
so similar,
so recent,
peeking out from behind the curtains,
trying not to disturb the room around her,
hoping to go unnoticed,
because she's got the idea that she's gone to waste,
so now she's self conscious.
That's just like her.
I don't know where she gets that from.
One by one,
the brat,
the moody teen,
the hopeful newborn,
and last year's girl are all around me,
surrounding me with a hopeful glance.
I am this year's model,
and I don't know how I'll change before I return,
but it did me so much good to see all the girls I've been,
and to tell each of them that they've been wonderful.
I just wish I could have told them before now.
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