By: Madeira Miller
You love that baby girl something fierce.
She comes home from the hospital
wrapped in the same blanket
that swaddled you over a decade ago.
Her first word is your name
and you’re the only witness to her saying it.
She wears the same Easter dresses
in which you once stuffed the pockets with jelly beans.
You push her on the swing
and she kicks off the boots
that you wore in kindergarten,
laughing as they soar through the air.
She’s been graced with your nose,
which you can’t bring yourself to hate anymore,
because it fits her face so perfectly –
just like the purple winter coat
that engulfs her. You gasp
when you see it stuffed into a box
labeled “Goodwill,” along with the blanket,
the Easter dresses, and yes–
even the boots. Her baby pictures
could be a mirror image of yours,
although much less grainy,
and stored on your very first cell phone.
You drop her off at your old middle school
with misty eyes and find yourself missing
the tiny girl that you pushed on the swing
and the infant that slept in your lap,
while loving the young woman
that she’s growing into: an endless cycle
of loving. And missing. And loving
and missing, and loving and missing.
Those overalls that used to be your favorite,
but fit her so much better.
The dolls who got their names from you
and their haircuts from her.
The yellow-paged books that you sounded out,
outgrew, and then read out loud to her.
The footsie pajamas that had holes in the toes
but she insisted on inheriting them anyway.
The same smile as your mother,
the prettiest family heirloom.
The tennis shoes with laces that you tied
for her–she doesn’t need your help anymore.
The tiny boots that you can’t part with,
so you buy them back from Goodwill.