ReallyRosie226

she's eight. the girl never stops moving, climbing the tarnished metal of the jungle gym  wildly, limbs swinging, eyes alight with a childhood joy I shed when I passed the port of twelve, thirteen. she is knotted curls, long silken hair with infant-blond ends. her fingers grab her doll with the frizzy hair and painted face, and she's eager to win hide-and-seek, checkers, Mario Kart. I am old enough to recognize that she will not last this way, that she will grow, as all children do. every time I see her, she grows a little taller. she no longer likes Dora, I've learned, and I guess she thinks blowing bubbles is too babyish now. one