POETRY/PHOTOGRAPHY

Baby Talk

A Poem

31 years ago; a red-haired baby, with a gap in her teeth.

Born the day Saddam invaded Kuwait.

A girl of few words, but big plans.

“Do it myself!” You always could, too.

“Actually, I want that one.” Fickle might be your middle name.

“Recycle, Daddy.” The first two words out of your mouth.

A full sentence.

“OK, Mom…” Punctuated with an exasperated tone and a roll of the eyes.

“Mine!” Yes, we always knew.

“Mom, I’m not stupid.” You said that to me just yesterday, it seems.

“It’ll get done.”

Cleaning your room? Taking out the trash? Emptying the dishwasher?

“I don’t know.” Uttered when someone asked about your future.

“I love you.” Sometimes by text; sometimes out loud.

But I can always feel the hug. Even when you roll your eyes.

Happy Birthday, Baby Chica. We love you, too!