She is twelve, on the brink of no longer a child.

But I know she is not ready yet, for growing up.

Her long stick-straight blonde hair is always in her face.

Her freckles and baby cheeks make her seem even younger.
 

When she was seven, she proudly claimed she was a horse.

She’d gallop around on her knees creating rug-burns.

As a baby, when she cried, she cried so hard she passed out.

We gave her anything she wanted, we didn’t want her to cry.
 

Now we can all see the effect of her childhood.

She is downstairs yelling for me, “Hurry up, I’m late!”

She asks for homework help that night in her room,

Then lectures me about how I’m not helping right.
 

But then she writes me a little note with pink paper:

“I’m sorry I yelled when you weren’t patient with me.”

I forgive her; I help her out again the next night.

She is holding back her snap retorts and I’m gentle.
 

Now she is twelve and no longer a child.