She adorns my wrist with neon plastic beads,
Wraps me in the scarves of her arms,
Dangles clip-on earrings before my eyes,
As if they were made of precious metal.
She writes a novel every day
Composed of the alphabet, numbers,
X’s and O’s,
Her name, my name, and the words
“I LOVE YOU.”
She serenades me with her high-pitched
Squeals, laughter, and “whistles” –
She spits in my direction when she’s angry,
Stamps her feet, and slaps her sides.
She curls up in my lap and demands tickles,
Buries her head in my chest when she cries,
Wipes her snot on my shirt if her nose
Decides to run.
She will not ride her tricycle; she’d rather
Drag it down the street, huffing and puffing.
She will not put on socks but doesn't need my help
Putting her shoes on the wrong feet.
She uses grown-up language to say she is
Fus-ter-ated
And baby language to indicate which foods
She absolutely will NOT try.
She composes portraits of herself with
Fields of flowers, sunshine, and grass using
Crayons, watercolors, pencils, pens, and
Anything that leaves a mark.
She is my daughter
My one and only, and
As soon as I grow accustomed to her
Preferences, ideas, vocabulary, and habits,
She grows, changes, and evolves.
So I will preserve her in my memory,
In pictures, and in words.
I will be the Museum of Maya
To remind her of how far she’s come and
How far she has left to go.
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