Sometimes at night I creep into your bedroom to memorize your face when it is quiet in sleep. You don’t know I’m there and I never tell you about my covert night travels. If I did, it would horrify you to think that your mother sneaks into your private space just to reassure herself that you actually do have some sort of peace.
You are so beautiful to me. Each tiny crease in your skin, the smell of your body that hasn’t changed in all these years of growing, as familiar to me as the scent of my own body. I put wings on a part of my heart and trusted it to fly when I set you free into this world.
Yet, I watch you struggle with your own personal demons. Your anger, your aggression and your all consuming drive are facets of you that both irritate and amaze. It is not that I lack pride in all of your accomplishments. Talent is not something you are left wanting. It is that I fear for you, that you are missing out on the simple joys of being young.
You have never been given over to casual living. Your wit is stunning and quick. You live your life determined. Our relationship was never an easy one and as you grow, I find myself searching for ways back to you.
When you surprise me with a spontaneous outburst of silliness or a girlish giggle, I am reminded that you are only thirteen years old. I find myself smiling secretly to myself as if I’ve discovered some rare gem and I’ve decided to keep it without alerting the owner. Your precious laugh is a rarity today.
There are times, after a particularly rough patch, when I’m left thinking I’ve lost you to some greater God than mom that I hold onto your baby blanket. When I press it to my face and inhale the sweet baby scent that I am positive still lingers there, I’m comforted.
Oh, I know that all mothers go through this. It doesn’t make my sense of loss any less, nor does it make my emotions run slower.
I realize that some day soon I will need to let you free of my desires to tether, but please, allow me a few more years. Not for you, my treasured daughter, but for me.
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