It is winter and we are on break.

The kids need to clean their rooms but tell me, “if you ask me to do it then it makes me not want to do it.”

The girl is tap dancing in the kitchen; the musical right now is her whole world.

The boy has restrung his lacrosse stick, 

he goes through the back door again and again-

to practice in the backyard.

“Bye, I love you.” I say no matter who leaves and no matter where they are going- next door to the Y, downtown with friends. 

The dog, now eleven, crawled under the house likely looking for a bunny last night.

We couldn’t find her; She gave us all a scare. 

I began weeping when she crawled out, not being able to see a life without her, her paws and belly black with dirt. 

Her face a smile, always. 

Our life is small. In 2000 square feet we all eat, sleep, do laundry, shower, lounge. 

Talk, debate, laugh, argue, parent: love.

I can tell who is coming down the stairs by the sound of their step and its weight, my son’s step is now the heaviest. 

The echo of singing in the shower bounces down into the living room. Somehow I hear a woman’s voice; not my little girl. 

We make brownies-probably too often— and they sit on the counter, each of us cutting our own perfect portion. Sometimes for breakfast. 

This slice of life feels as if it will too soon disappear. So, I try to lean into it. 

The dog at my feet, a book in my hand, coffee within reach, the bustle (and the mess) of the house is a comfort.

We are on the edge of silence in some ways, where all of the noise, the shouting up the stairs, 

“Dinner!”

“5 minutes and we are leaving!”

“I made brownies, do you want one?”

will soon be—quiet.

Today, I am full in ways I want to always remember. Footsteps on the stairs. Tap shoes in the kitchen. Brownies in the oven. A curious dog at our feet.

For now, I will soak in the abundance of these small, quiet, lovely moments as they etch their way, so sweetly, onto my heart. 

It is winter and we are on break. 

Sitting at the airport, I observe a Nana traveling with two grandchildren.

They ask her what her tattoo says as they snack on sliced apples and peanut butter from a small Tupperware.

The boy’s chubby fingers grasp the apples while Nana spreads peanut butter on them gently, as if she’s done it a thousand times before. 

She says the tattoo is a Roman numeral for her favorite bible passage. 

She speaks to them sweetly and without stress. 

Her bulky shoulder tote is filled with baggies of kid snacks and activities, she pulls out markers for the little boy to color with. 

“Get your hands out of your shorts,” she says.

Planes take off and the little girl points. “It’s a busy place, isn’t it?” Nana says.

In a moment I blink, and I am that Nana. I have library books overflowing in a backpack, my daughter has given me a list of all their favorite foods and their allergies, 

We are off to have an adventure!

My son calls me to check on them. I pass the phone back and forth.

 “We are having so much fun,” I say.

I have a list of all we have done in our little travel journal, the pages are well worn with with peanut butter smudges and chocolate milk splatters.

I keep it because I want to make sure they remember. But also so that I don’t forget. 

Truth be told,  I am not this grandmother, 

but in some wormhole pocket of life, I may soon be. 

And as I sit, as I admire curious children or more specifically— calm, tattooed grandmothers, I think that moments like this:

This airport, these chubby fingers, these planes, and the overflowing tote bag of snacks are all metaphors, aren’t they?

You are young and then you are old and then everyone is young again. And you just have to keep looking around and questioning, and explaining, and loving and try to never lose your sense of wonder. 

It’s a busy place, isn’t it?

Later, while I get teary under my sunglasses, I see Nana (me) hide her phone from herself to watch them play. 

They are a little bit farther from her this time, in awe of the floor to ceiling windows: both kids laughing and squealing in delight,

“Nana, watch! Nana, watch!”

“I’m watching,” she says.

I look over, smile, and think:

Now, look at us: 

A pair of tattooed women

Just sitting at the airport

Sharing apple slices

And talking about our grandchildren. 

Her soft voice and kind eyes and slow response to them comfort me somehow. 

But this Nana is wiser than me,

She knows not to look away for even a minute—

She doesn’t want to forget

this busy place,

these chocolate splatters of memories,

These chubby fingers that grasp tight to her heart. 

All women, somehow—

have one foot in where they are and one foot in where they’ve been— and they always feel like what they see in the present is some kind of dream, some movie stuck on fast forward.

Time passes slow in an airport,

or in a rocking chair at 3 am,

or in a twin bed after a stomach bug,

or in a hospital when you see their little face for the first time.

But time passes so fast in so many other places that it becomes hard to slow down, to take notice, to hide your phone away to see the joy and the world squealing.

It’s a busy place, isn’t it?

It sure is.

You will not be able to conceal her heart or cover up her grace or smooth out or moisten the creases of her confidence

You don’t need to whiten, tighten, or brighten anything about her

Her eyes are the center to my universe, they tell stories you don’t deserve to hear.

Her lashes are long, thick, strong and command authority-

when she blinks, her outlook clarifies, her resolve prickles-

She does not need to scrub off dead skin or smooth pores or gloss a pout— because she is nothing but alive,

rough in all the right places and—-

just so you know—

She already shines when she speaks her mind, shares what’s in her heart, says exactly what she means.

The beauty that she strives for she already holds inside of her—

it doesn’t need a serum or an oil or a spray to make it shine—

She’s already shining so damn bright.

If I haven’t already been clear, stay away from my daughter.

She may think that if she has a cart full of your things that she can:

sooner

revel in her own beauty

sooner

realize her promise and power

But…the world already knows her.

And sees her.

We see that her

hair,

her skin

the brightness of her smile

play second fiddle to

her mind

her heart

her strength

She is everything

your products claim to enhance

But she will not be reduced

girls

women

grandmothers

tweens swiping Tik Tok looking to be shinier, leaner, brighter.

We line up products like we should line up the women we love.

A line of strength and power and beauty and grace

A line that may show when you laugh or when you frown-

But never when you stand up for what you believe

Never when you say the perfect thing at the perfect moment

Never when you choose to lift someone up instead of cataloging their flaws

One thing I can’t swipe into my Amazon cart-

Is the woman who we all need

Not the mirror image that we’ve always wanted.

Because— it’s women that hold us.

Women that lift us.

Women that smooth over our rough parts and point to the mountains we’ve climbed.

Saying, “You’ve done all that. *You* have.”

So, this letter is really telling you that I will be deleting these things from the cart now-

and I’ll say my goodbye to all you’ve offered my daughter.

All you’ve offered me…

I don’t think we will be needing your services anymore.

We’re good.

Sincerely,

A Mother

My daughter, Celia, was three when I bought her her first leotard. Teeny little ballet shoes, a little tulle skirt she could pull on and off, her baby fine hair pulled up in a teeny tiny bun.

The little girl dancer brings infinite joy. You see the first signs of her personality- however stubborn, feisty, or outgoing. You catch her dancing in the mirror or performing alone in her bedroom. She dances for everyone and no one. She is herself, purely.

You never think about those days ending, or morphing into what they become later. You never, at least early on, see the bigger girl (young woman?) inside her, waiting to come out. That all comes later- hard and fast.

Walking around a dance recital after nearly eight years of my daughter dancing, I see all the little girls of the past eight years in all of its phases. I see the toddling girls, the first time in make-up girls, I see the proud-with -her-grandmother-girls, carrying a bouquet of flowers around that’s bigger than she is. I see all the girls she has known through dance and grown alongside.

And every year- I see *my* girl: sweetly self-assured, boldly talented, — authentically herself.

Dance, specifically non-competition dance, creates a different type of athlete in a young girl. It makes someone who honors her body’s capabilities, cheers on her fiends, challenges herself to learn new things. The dance athlete does not shy away from the challenge of performance, the pressure of a live show, the adrenaline rush of showtime.

I cannot explain to you how much dance has become the heartbeat of my daughter’s world. The same teacher since she was four, the same group of girls to grow with, opportunity after opportunity to show who she is through dance. It’s like I turned around and— all of a sudden— she wasn’t a little girl in a leotard anymore. As she grew taller, so did her confidence, so did her sense of self. As she perfected each move, she revealed another piece of her personality: relentless in her work, powerful in her dedication, emotional in her expression.

In all the phases of dancer my daughter has been, I’ve seen the value add up not just in the dance itself, but in the gifts it gives to her. It pours in endless love and expression, and pours out memory upon memory upon memory. The commitment of a dancer is heart-work. It exposes vulnerability, a window into who you are and how you see yourself. Dance is your safe place to land when the world is chaos around you.

As a mom, when you look around a dance recital, you see all phases of your life in front of you, too. You see yourself in the girls who pass you in giggles as much as you see in the young mom with her first-year ballerina. You see girlhood, womanhood, and motherhood intertwined so closely that the product is not just the recital itself. It’s the smiles on the face of each parent and grandparent, the tears in the mom’s eyes at the finale, the “I’m so proud of you!” exclamations that fill the hallway afterwards.

At 43, it’s easy to look upon all things with nostalgia: girlhood, early motherhood, the dance recitals behind me. But this one— it really pulled at me this year- the phases, the purity, the growth. So palpable in a room full of dancers and parents of dancers.

So while the little girl dancer turns into the young woman dancer more and more each year, I will do this:

I will *not* wish the busy nights we have to get to dance with rushed dinner or car dinner or “I’m hungry what’s for dinner?” away. I will tolerate the same song being played at full volume again and again in he living room each spring. And I will continue to appreciate the infinite joy that is the first Saturday of June. Little pink leotard or not.

We went on a great American family vacation this week and I found myself fighting a tiny sadness inside. A sadness that could evaporate as soon as I watch my daughter loop her arm through my husband’s arm as we walk, in moments while they play in the hotel pool, or as soon as I feel the joy of us all laughing together at the same time. But it was there, twisting around in my gut, trying to take root. I willed it away— moment by moment.

Because every trip feels like a big trip- and you think about all the trips you took for granted when they were tiny (the trips and the people) and could fit in your arms. You think of all the meals you’ve served at a hotel room coffee table or reaching back to a car seat. All the bathing suits you’ve pulled off wiggling bodies after a dunk in the hotel pool, all the times you heard their snores a bed away and thought, “They are going to sleep well tonight.”

The tiny sadness looms. It’s like a little gremlin of the passage of time. It tells you to take a deep breath on hard days and to throw caution to the wind on great ones. It—along with your very sore legs— tells you that you are getting older and you can’t manage what you used to. But it also tells you to think about the little ones they are, here, today— and not look ahead or behind— too wistfully.

The tiny sadness is not actually not sadness though. It’s just love. It’s the love that crept into your heart the day you first heard someone call you Mommy. It’s the same love that warms you when you identify yourself as “Cece’s Mom” when you have not called her Cece her entire life.

Tiny sadness is just love dressed up. It’s donning a fancy vacation suit that you roll out the red carpet for. Tiny sadness parades around and says, “You won’t forget this, don’t worry.” And you want to believe it.

So as you drive the car and hear the Goldfish bag crinkle in the back seat. As you look in the rear view mirror and see them laughing with each other— You come to know this: Love sometimes feels like sadness and sadness sometimes feels like love. And they will coexist, deep in your belly, in many more trips, and milestones, and moments in the coming years.

But it will stay tiny, and let you have the vacation you imagined and the chats you had hoped for. It will let you sleep like a rock and wake to a cuddle. Sometimes, the tiny sadness knows just what you need.

Don’t fight the tiny sadness. Because when it’s there, we stop more. We also appreciate more, laugh more, see more— and what’s most important, of course, we love more.

It only took me 12 Christmases to get nostalgic. Just 12.

I was a parent for only 9 days before I spent my first Christmas with you.

You arrived 3 weeks early, on my last day of work. You weren’t supposed to come until January.

I ordered Christmas cards with your picture to announce your birth.

I was in love with being a mother at Christmastime before Santa even made his first stop.

That was (nearly) 13 years ago. 12 Christmases come and gone. Already?

It took 12 Decembers for me to miss your sweet little voice when you sang, “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the reindeer.”

It took 12 ornaments made with your school photo or a handprint to make me sigh wistfully this year as we decorated the tree.

12 holiday seasons for you to learn that once the tree is up- we watch Home Alone, then Elf, then Christmas Vacation, then the Grinch.

12 Christmas Eves of Chinese food and 12 Christmas mornings with bagels and cream cheese.

12 Christmas dinners, several that we hosted at our own table (7 to be exact)

12 trees, 12 filled stockings, 12 letters to Santa by a plateful of cookies.

12 readings of The Night Before Christmas on the couch before bed.

12 early (and I mean, early) mornings with you waiting at the top of the stairs to go down and peek for the first time.

12 Advent calendars, 12 cookie baking Sundays, 12 trips to the Holiday train, or Breakfast with Santa, or some in town light display.

12 days after Christmas in our jammies amid a mess in the living room.

In my 13th Christmas with you, I ache to savor it. To slow it down.

I want every Santa letter, every Christmas carol, every scrap of crumpled wrapping that lay on the living room floor- given back to me.

I want to hold it all in my mind’s scrapbook- so I can turn the pages back and back and back and back- and back.

But my heart can’t hold all of it. It leaks out now and again, sometimes in the corners of my eyes.

In truth, we will have many more Christmas seasons, we will honor the traditions of the first 12 and make new ones in the next 12.

But those first 12, I won’t stop reminding you of them.

I will tell you stories of magic and miracles and flurries of joy.

I will admit that I got a second chance at being a child with you. But this time I got to keep all the surprises, I got to hold all of the stories.

In 12 Christmases, you grew tall enough to put the star on the tree yourself.

You can make your own hot cocoa, you know all of my favorite Christmas songs.

In 12 Christmases, I got 12 installments of you at every age- the small and sweet, the bold and inquisitive, the quick-witted and wise.

In 12 years, however you measure them, Christmas became not something we did but something we *feel*.

Our place to land. Our reset for the year ahead.

In 12 years, we grew tradition, we piled up memories, and we kept on going.

12 Christmases have passed. But our 13th is before us.

And though the magic feels different, the house sounds different, and you both (okay, Mom and Dad too) look different, it will be very much the same as the 12 before.

The metrics of holidays, and love, and memories, and nostalgia are not something I pretend to understand.

But I do know this.

One quiet Christmas morning, there were hoof prints through the snow across the top of our garage.

One December evening the year your Grandpop passed, a nativity scene appeared on our front lawn.

One Christmas Eve, Santa paid a visit to us early before you went to bed.

And the words to Jingle Bells, undoubtedly, should be changed to, “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the reindeer.”

I used both hands to count the number of summers before my son went to college the other day. I was shocked that there were only six left. Six?

As a teacher, I count myself lucky to have my children day in and day out for two months for the past 13 summers. It’s what I told myself when I cried the mornings I returned from their (too) short maternity leaves. It’s what I tell other teacher-Moms when they start to feel the guilt of being away from their babies. It’s quite honestly the one thing about my job that has saved my sanity these past two years. But I digress.

We have chosen to take our kids all over the place each and every summer. Sometimes it’s just because we are super lucky to have family in vacation destinations, sometimes it’s for the practical reason of renting out our house in our little tourist town. Whatever it is, summers have become sacred to us. Time that is for tradition, and family, and no bedtimes, and sandy feet, and cuddly mornings. Summer is the release breath of growing another year older and trying to take in all that our lives have become: the beauty, the busyness, the people who we are lucky to have surround us year after year.

When I look at my children now, I try to pause in my mind and say: This is her 11 summer, this is his last summer before becoming a teen. I try to give it time in my memory and in my heart to make an imprint, to hold for a little bit before next summer’s moments replace it.

And I want to have something wise to say right now about this. I want to say that I am able to head into the fall without a tug in my belly. I want to say that I did everything I wanted to and crossed everything off our summer to do list. I want to say I lived every day in the moment and didn’t yell or get tired or order too much take out.

But I can’t. All I can say is that every parent- teacher or not- is heading into September with that same feeling. The feeling changes as they age- but it’s always there. And I suspect it’s there for summers when they aren’t even down the hall from you. Summers when they are snuggled in their own beds somewhere with their own kids having their own summers.

But I do have this. Your memories are better documented than any summer you ever lived as a kid. There are more pictures, more videos, more moments, more memories, waiting for you in a little box you carry around each day. You can choose to head down that memory lane in the dead of winter or maybe in some lonely July in 2035. And you can live it as if it was yesterday, as if it didn’t happen so fast you lost track. You can live each sacred summer you had again and again. Though it’s surely not the same, it’s something.

Because summer in it’s freedom and in its departure from routine and rules- it taught you who you were as a parent- it taught you who your kids were- what they needed, what they valued, and gave little peeks of who they were going to be.

It taught you that some memories will be panoramic ones, spanning whole vacations, whole Julys, whole camping trips. Long threads that you can hold onto a little tighter, a little closer, and you can be a little less teary as you head into another 10 months before your next sacred summer begins.

I started blogging around the time I started parenting. Soon, I was writing about those brief moments of transition and nostalgia. My children growing up and moving on as real people. Everything seemed so far away. Middle school, high school, college- it felt like a “someday.”

“Someday” largely seems like every day lately and the new someday feels like something bigger- a wedding, a first job, a grandchild. People say there’s 365 days in a year but I have questions about the past 13 for me.

My mother got sick this year. She also turned 80. Her mortality and my own parenting stage became painfully apparent. A type of loneliness began to set in. A type I can’t quite put words to. But today I will try.

In the middle of summer in my 43rd year of life, I have two middle schoolers. I have a husband close to 50, I have *so much* to love and appreciate. But I also feel like I’ve hit the top of a roller coaster drop that’s about to go faster than I would like it to (this is also the reason I stopped riding roller coasters).

So much heart and so much physical effort is put into raising small children. Losing sleep, keeping them safe, negotiating nap time, getting them to eat healthy foods. When they are physically small, it’s easy to feel like the stakes are small. Tomorrow we will cuddle, make cookies together, and I will read you 10 picture books on the couch. My thoughts, my conversations, my family time will feel intimate, private. Our own little world barricaded from everyone else.

Covid brought back that feeling. I had an 8 and 10 year old all to myself. As stressful as that time was, I was so happy they were neither toddlers nor teenagers, I felt like I had secured the child rearing sweet spot of lockdown. It was a bonus I never knew would strengthen the family the way it did. But somehow, even *that* feels far away these days.

And I feel it. Everything about me is older. My eyes, my wardrobe, my dance moves. I feel their adolescence, their shifting identities, their strong spirits growing out of (and away from) me. Yet, when I look at them all I see is a little boy with glasses asking for a “cuddle party.” I see a little girl who sang “Uptown Funky What” for a whole summer.

My phone throws images at me from my past: Facebook memories, Google photos labeled “back in the day.”Pieces of my family’s history that land like a gut punch. Next year my son will be taller than me. This fall my daughter may stop grabbing my hand on sidewalks. And even though I’m trying not to write the elegy before we’ve lived the ballad- it’s getting a lot harder. Summer seems to magnify it. Times a hundred.

Trust me, I can see 50 year old me reading this and saying, “Jesus, Bridgette pull it together- they are still so young.” But 33 year old Bridgette is shocked by how much things have changed. How much kid-activities drive the bus (or the minivan), how conversations between Mike and I seem rushed or non-existent, how much more freedom I have that I don’t take advantage of. All because I am worried about missing the time with them.

You spend their first 8-10 years of parenthood fantasizing about what they could be—someday. You spend ages 10-18 (and beyond, I suspect) thinking about who they are and how they will make their way. Every decision feels big now- social ones, athletic ones, academic ones. We used to talk about what cereal we were going to let them eat and what our screen time allowances were. Now we are resisting (hard) getting them phones and talking about college. They are planning their next birthday party or growth spurt while we fantasize about the days when all we had to do was determine how to tire them out for naptime.

But, parents in 2022 live through lenses that didn’t exist when our parents were raising us. They couldn’t read internet articles or social media feeds (or sappy teeny tiny blogs) that highlight the peccadilloes of parenting. They didn’t search for a single answer to your inexplicable medical issue in a 2 am Google search.

So what *did* they do? They lived it. Every twisty turn, every loop de loop, every gut drop of parenting. They appreciated some things, forgot to appreciate others. They told you stories, pulled out a drawer full of pictures (many less than our own children will have, it turns out) and told you about all the days, moments, summers you spent together.

And sometimes they stopped—briefly— for small moments and big moments. They got choked up and said they were proud of you. (Except when I came home with a tattoo and dad said, “You are really stupid.”)

They had less to learn from but also less to aspire to. Their values were not set by strangers on social media or by your friends down the street. I don’t remember seeing a tearful nostalgia in my mother’s eyes when I headed off to middle school.

But I didn’t need to.

Growing up is never sad to a child until they are an adult. The growing is, as it turns out, the best part. You grow into yourself. Into a college kid. Into an adult with a car payment. Into a middle aged midsummer mom with middle schoolers. Into a grandparent.We’re all growing into something, it turns out. Every member of the family. All at the same time.

And no matter how near or far their childhood feels—No matter how difficult or perfect their current stage of life seems—No matter how present or distracted you are—please know this:

Your “someday” will keep changing. Don’t rewind or fast forward too much. It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Just let today’s roller coaster be the big drop it is.

And when you can, put your arms up, scream along with them, and (try to) enjoy that drop. Over and over again.

I brought you a toddler (she was only 4!) six years ago.

She came to you with a tendency to wander, without her Rs fully formed-

And you took her in, with open arms.

You showed her how to be a friend, find her Rs, to wander only at wandering times.

You showed her how to write herself into worlds of her own creation. How to be an ally, an advocate, an activist.

She found a love of art, science, and above all, people- as she perfectly formed words of her own to describe her wonder with the world.

You organized her, prioritized her, and showed me that when I may have been distracted and not entirely tuned in at home- you had it covered at school.

You called me, or emailed me and said things like “our Celia” which although is second nature to you by now, it was something that overwhelmed me with support.

It made me see that to teach and to love are only separated in the dictionary, but in your classroom, they are one in the same.

Raising a daughter and showing her the world is overwhelming at times. You want her to be everything and not pressure her to be anything. You want people to see her but you don’t want her to feel bad about being in the background.

You saw my daughter. You saw her needs. You saw the spirit inside of her ready to form Rs to Read, to Recite, to Reach up and out for the next piece of information she couldn’t wait to learn.

She leaves you with a tendency to wander, a deep love of everything, and she has formed so much more than her Rs.

She has a foundation- a foundation built by the women who taught her, the women who loved her, the women who first told her she was smart.

So if you see her in the coming years, wandering about- please know- she takes *you* with her as she wanders- she has *you* in her heart.

When you were four I painted this room pink for you.

And now, as the paint roller makes the pink disappear and I cover the handprint on the wall,

As I tote your beanie babies to the donation bin, I wonder—

The next time I paint this room, will it still be yours?

I think of the mother I was six years ago who rolled pink on thick, so confident that this room would be your favorite place to be.

And it is. Your socks litter the floor, your art projects are left half done on the windowsill, your science experiments stuffed under the dresser.

The deck of cards you used to do card tricks when you were six are at the bottom of a bin of unicorn toys.

The picture you painted in art class is wrinkled underneath your bed.

You’ve grown so much but I as I paint, I feel like something is ending.

Like I am covering up a whole period of time that I didn’t know I would miss so much.

There’s no Barbies stuffed in the closet anymore, your princess chair is long gone.

You’re only 10 but 10 is halfway to 20 and these 10 went by in a blink.

I think of a night eight or ten years from now I will wander down the hall to turn your light off- stand at the doorway and listen to you sleep…

But you will be fast asleep in a dorm room somewhere sending me a text that says, “Love you Mom, good night.”

I sat on the floor, in the place you used to have tea parties today and cried.

No one tells a hopeful mother picking out pink for her toddler that pink will fall out of favor, that cool posters will someday adorn the walls and the door will close you inside to trade secrets at sleepovers, or to make lists of the places you want to travel someday.

Places that are not down the hallway from me.

I wish I knew the last time you crawled into my bed.

I wish I could remember when you were light enough to carry up the stairs.

I wish I spent more nights reading books in the pink room laying next to you, until you fell asleep.

When we redecorate, we winnow through the old you and decide if you’ve grown out of more than just last year’s jeans— you’re growing into someone, too.

Someone who will change this room (but not the paint) three or four more times— as you trace new trends, as you develop new passions, as you keep getting older despite the little voice I still remember inside these walls.

You’ll take photos off the wall,

Hang up new ones,

Again and again until…

I am sitting here rescuing dirty clothes from the floor—wondering how it went by so quickly-

Wondering how time paints over my little girl until a little woman emerges.

I want to paint all of the rooms you will live in. I want them all to be down the hall from me.

This off white paint you picked is a blank canvas of the girlhood before you.

The pink paint was armor for me- to keep you here- to keep things new- to keep myself from believing that time keeps rolling over us.

It’s a contract, maybe- one that guarantees you will stay longer as a little girl in a ballet skirt on the windowsill.

A sleepy girl wrapped in a blanket on a Saturday morning.

It reminds me that you don’t belong to me-

Perhaps you never did.

Your new room,

Your ever changing brightness-belongs to the world now.

Sit down on the bed with me.

Let me remind you of tea parties and songs you would sing to me at night—

And promise to come back here even after it’s not your room anymore— after you are too big for this bed—

And let me turn off your light for you every once in a while.