I remember

I remember the day you were born 21 years ago. I remember the sky, the roads, the dark of the night. I remember your little head, full of black hair, your rosy lips singing the newborn's song.

I remember though the feeling of knowing you'd be coming, months before you looked at me for the first time, the scream in my heart, loud to me alone. The day I found out you'd come to this world. I remember; that day accompanies me with joy.

I remember the day you first walked. The proud eyes of the child, the beaming eyes of the father. I remember your first kick, and your first step, and your first smile.

I remember the smile you sported the day you and I ate a madeleine. You savored vanilla taste for the first time. I remember the twinkle. And your little hand. And your toes. I remember your bent toe, alone in a world of ten.

I remember the handwriting, the colors, the drawings, the morning sun, which shone on your face. I remember the room where you slept, you the child. Your fine little hands, little fingers, a silken touch.

I remember the walks and the trips. The drawbridge of Maine. The happy photo of you with your colorful sweater. I remember your jumping, your talking. Your talking, fast and fluent.

I remember the day you cried. Your pink tears. Your wet shirt. Your hair, straight and curly.

I remember the day you left. I remember the day I left. And your hugs. Your hugs.

I remember the day you were not a child anymore. The happiness in your face. The day you learned to fly.

I remember the day you learned of the world's cruelty. And your resilience. And your silence.

I remember it all. The details are a repeating image full of love.

I remember that now you are the same that you once were, a baby with black hair, but now, a woman with black hair, and a bounding heart.

I remember, you will remember. Happy birthday, little girl.