The girl, my seven year old sunbeam, is the very daughter I longed for in writing from the time I was her age.

The girl, my lovely confident sprite, is the daughter that believes wholeheartedly that the world is her oyster.

The girl, my dark haired and green eyed version of my husband, is the daughter who is independent, runs fast and knows her brave strength.

The girl, my own person, is the daughter that looks nothing like me, but she is a ingenuous fighter and sharp as a tack.

The girl, my ever so clever vixen, is the daughter that calls me and texts me when I’m away and longs for my return, though she struggles to admit that truth.

The girl, my third child, is the daughter that, like me, naturally guards her heart and wears the armor of humor and spacial distance for protection.

The girl, my child named for my father, is the daughter that I hope knows I write and speak aloud for real freedom.

The girl, my baby that wasn’t the last one after all, is the daughter for whom I share my heart so she will know that its’ disclosure divulges real joy.

The girl, my only girl, is the daughter among three brothers and it is she that I entrust will keep them close long after I’m gone.

The girl, my Sissy as I call her, is the daughter that has shown me that love has no limits, hope has no boundaries and fierceness has a bright future.

The girl, my little miss, is the daughter that has reminded me what it’s like to relish being a sister and taught me through words and actions that special needs and perfection are one in the same.