She climbs into bed next to me in the mornings.
She holds my hand as we walk along the road.
She makes up stories with imaginary characters.
She asks me to read to her at night.
She tells me everything.
She asks my advice.
She looks up to me.
She tells me her secrets.
She misses me when I’m gone.
She wants to live with me forever.
She’s now nine, nearly ten.
Single digits, but only just.
She is sometimes grumpy, often argumentative. She’s starting to find her own path.
She’s changing, growing up. Pushing the boundaries. Learning the ways of the world.
She’s stronger than she looks.
She knows her own mind.
She’s starting to form her own opinions.
She claims she’s always right.
She is my girl.
She is the only child I have.
And I can feel her childhood years slipping through my fingers so much faster than I would like.