Amateur Poetry: Who You’d Be Today

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,

So innocent,

So free,

So loved.

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.

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