Anna is five years old today. Five. I do not want to believe it, but it is true. I wrote a poem about her when she was only three months old. She was only a baby: She could not race around the house like a horse or prowl like a lion. She could not draw so purely, so passionately. She could not sing songs praising the beauty of the evening or of the One who sowed the moon and the stars in the black, fertile soil of Night. She could not tell me, with tears, how she missed her grandparents. She could not gently remind me about the apology I owed her for yelling. She could not swing so riotously, scraping the clouds with her toes. She could not love pizza. She could not play in the bay window, wrapping herself and her sisters in story. She could not reach her arms about me as she would a too-wide tree and say, I love you, Daddy. She could not do any of these things.
But she was Anna - full, even then, of grace.
She watches me write; I watch her be.
Peace newly born,
Bright-eyed, we watch together.
I'm still watching, Anna. I'm still amazed. I'm still in love.