the line gets fuzzy

[photo courtesy of Nickell Photography]

She is me. Or perhaps I am her. The line connecting us definitely gets fuzzy from time to time, so fuzzy in fact that I often wonder if we are the same person, just some twenty-five years apart. She is afraid to be alone but craves silent spaces. She fights to the death but in the end just wants a hug. She throws tantrums the size of Mt. Rushmore. She remembers the tiny things but struggles to remember the big ones. She is thoughtful and sincere and almost always thinking of someone else. She loves to snuggle, but only on her terms. She is wise beyond her years and constantly asks deep questions, "Mama, why doesn't that man have a home? Why can't we help him more? Where will you go when you die? How will I feel you if you aren't here? Why do you love me?" She is beautiful on the inside but doesn't always see it.

I love this girl. No one knows her like I do. No one. I know her because she is me, but a much better form of me. 

1 comment :

  1. I love this post. I feel the same way about my eldest, Dorothy, and it's amazing and terrifying all at once - if only for the thought of her (me)as a teenager! x


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