My Baby

She will not grow up, I think to myself.  I think it while I hold her in my lap, and when I crush her pills.  It crosses my mind when I tighten the waist of her too-big pants and when I brush her teeth.  She will not run barefoot through the sprinkler this summer, or make shadow puppets with a flashlight inside a dark tent.  It comes to me as I watch children her age climb the slide, spin in fancy skirts, lick drippy ice cream cones, perform favorite nursery rhymes.  It occurs to me, again, when I set just three places at the dinner table, and when I pause to watch her sleep.  She will not tease her brother or use words to tell me how much she loves me, or hates me.  She will not grow up, I think as I create small holes in the dirt and fill pots without a curious sidekick.

I think it, and then I whisper to her: You will not grow up, but you will always be my baby.

JEB