Overnight,
she’s changed.
Grown more withdrawn
and wise. Her intuition stronger.
She’s learned to use her face
as armor. She takes no sh*t.
I am so proud.
When she was a baby,
I would sing over her:
I belong
in the service
of the Queen,
with the Crows.
Every time I look at her now,
I still think: Queen.
Khaleesi. Empress. Goddess.
Czarina. Liege. Majesty.
When we parley, it is with respect
and care for dignity.
This approach
has carried us safely on
for years.
When I open my arms,
she leans into them,
staying in my embrace
for long, quiet moments.
I hold her gently, lightly,
the way I hold my beliefs
and opinions, the way I hold
all other things that change
and grow quickly.
I am honored she leans in.
I am so pleased she daughters me,
and allows me to mother her.
Like this post? View similar content here: Letter To My Nine-Year-Old Daughter
