slipping.

silently, mostly, but sometimes she speaks, she's slipping through stages faster than i have energy to savor.

she spends too much time crying. i hate that. i wish i wasn't so tired, so spent. i strap her in. in the car-seat. in the high-chair. in the stroller. in the bike-trailer. i frantically feed her while my mind plans for the moment i can put her away somewhere until i must keep her alive again.

all those pretty dresses still on the hangers. too small now. i planned to... well it's too late for them now.

strangers compliment her red hair. is it red now? i look at her and see the object i must move. she's strapped to my back now anyway. i take photographs of all i can see, but she's behind me always. i can't see her.

my daughter. i could scoop her up if my arms weren't so full. i could kiss her cheeks if my mouth could stop instructing. i could dance with her if life would stop cutting in.

she will be my summer love. i will let myself become obsessed with her. the tiny, round wonder that is my child. i'm determined to find her.