Matilda's dark lashes, lightly touching her cheek, in rhythm, as she fits each puzzle piece. It is almost too much. It's sad, how the fan blows her hair and how I can't remember the others. The details of their 3rd year. And how I may not remember the details of hers. My throat's tight and I "help her with her puzzoh", but really I just stare at her like a dumb lady. Unable to take in her essence in completeness. The way she runs on the beach, her heart-shaped lips forming these little words that aren't quite right. A bit of a stutter.
My little one.
Your feet splayed at an angle underneath you as you folded down toward the big bucket of water on the shore. You collected baby clams and ran and rolled around in the sand. You crinkled up your nose and ate some cheese-its on a chair. Today was you in liquid form. No schedule, you getting basically anything you want. Even the soccer ball that the other girls and I were trying to kick around in shallow water. Your birth marks, your smells, your insatiable appetite for anything and everything. Your bangs that constantly hang onto your sweet, soft face and tease your mini nostrils.
And time goes on like a torrent, hurting my head and body and leaving me empty-ish. And a bit sad. Because how can I enjoy the present in spite of the future, and the change it always brings?
My little Matilda, I want to remember you today, tonight. As a little one, age 3, who dresses herself and has a gentle manner. But one who fights for what she wants. And also, please know that everyone that meets you is enamored. Sigh and a half.