When you were a baby, I spent hours just holding you…
Gazing at you…
I would watch you sleep while my tears, borne of the most astonishing and breathtaking love I have ever felt, fell on you.
And you grew into a little girl.
And though I knew those warm, hushed moments with you were precious and fleeting, I really didn’t know just how much I would miss them when they were gone.
Every now and then, like a punch, it steals the very breath from my chest…
I remember something you used to say. Or the wispy way your hair fell around your face. Or I remember how you were everything I ever cared about.
Some mornings I hold onto you just a moment longer before you run off. Some mornings I watch blurry-eyed, as you wait at the bus stop. And I can’t believe that you are away from me for all those hours, every day. And I miss you.
Now, there is little time to be together, just me and you.
But sometimes, I watch you. When I am cooking, or washing dishes, my eyes fall on you and I pause to watch you.
I watched one day as you curled up with the dictionary, reading page after page, your toes curling and your fingers pointing and scanning. And those same beautiful yellow strands of hair falling across your forehead. I smiled at your curiosity. I smiled at you, and how wonderful you have become. I smiled at my little girl.
And I wondered where so many years have gone, Kate.
Sometimes, in what almost seems like panic, I reach for memories of the precious, soft way you spoke. For your thoughtful, cautious manner. For the way your hair smelled. For your tender nature. For any memory of the littler you. I miss the littler you.
And I miss just me and you, Kate.