Who You’d Be Today
You’d be eight years old today.
And as with any girl who wakes to
Find herself one year older,
You’d hop downstairs and
Grab me and Dad for
Two sweet kisses,
And your milk.
You’d be a ballet dancer today.
And excitement would take over
Whenever I let you wear
Your pink tutu, white tights, and shiny tiara.
Your teacher might fear your
Spontaneity and free spirit,
But I’d always love you for that.
You’d be a fighter today.
Getting you to bed would mean
Hours of me bribing, and you crying,
But I wouldn’t mind
As long as in the end
You’d sleep peacefully in your bed
With covers wrapped around you tight and
Sweet, sweet eyes contentedly closed.
I can imagine your smile—starry.
I always hope that
It’d be like your father’s, since his
Was always so bright and genuine.
But the light has dimmed overtime,
With the thought of you.
I sit here in my kitchen, on a Saturday morning,
Moving around charred toast,
Sipping on cold coffee,
Thinking of you,
While my friends,
Mothers with daughters of their own,
Go to ballet class.
Their daughters are so nice,
My heart throbs and twists and pulls
And I can’t help but think
About who you’d be today
If you hadn’t died inside me.