To Grace, my almost big girl:

 

 

You’re nine,

Running around and playing,

Making messes,

Having mom clean them up,

Crying about scraped knees,

And telling everyone you love them.

 

But you’re not nine,

You’re six,

Learning to tie your shoes,

Annoying Emma and I,

Chasing Diego and Albert

Like your life depended on it.

 

How I wish you were still four months,

In and out of hospitals,

Breathing softly, crying hard,

Alive, and not so well.

But, you’re not,

And that’s okay.

 

You’re not nine, nor six,

You’re forever our baby girl.

It has been nine years since your departure,

Mommy is doing great, G-ma is swell,

Emma and the boys are funny,

I’m joyful, and graduating.

 

This is for you, our baby girl, I promised you life and I have lived it for you.