You are not nearly this or half of that. You are not almost or over. You are not in the middle of up, or on the way out.
You are all of 11.
And though I’ll never miss a thing, I miss you just the same. Happy birthday, daughter. It’s the time of year to put old clothes away, and party.
My girl was a big girl, her own girl, with her own loves and her own life. I was a spectator, but the show was splendid and I still had the best seat in the house. If I were forever looking forward or lingering too long looking backward, I would miss too much. I would miss it all. – Momma Zen