She grabbed the tampons
Small green and white package
From the bottom shelf.
Of a local grocery, Sunday at 10 am
Before navigating the sandy bridge
And the inclines and declines
Of the play structure,
Making her way to the slide.
Sixteen months now.
When we came in the early spring,
She wasn’t close to walking yet.
I hunched my way up
Those sandy steps.
Perched her on the yellow-painted
Wooden seat
A seat at the table
Drummed a rhythm for her,
While she scratched at the sand.
Then I plopped her on my lap
We slid down, a slow-motion and awkward descent.
Now she needs little help,
Only encouragement and our trust.
She balances well,
More stable by the week.
Squeaking sneakers
Keeping up with the dogs.
Infant becomes toddler.
Becomes pre-schooler.
Becomes first-grader.
Becomes middle-schooler.
Becomes adolescent.
Becomes full-fledged teenager.
And then, if we’re lucky,
Becomes a college student.
Each step invisible
While we all sleep.
We went on a preschool tour.
A nature-based place
With waiting lists.
And we’ll wait
As she gathers her sounds
Into words.
Her steps
Into strides.
We will never know
How she grew up.
Only that she did.
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Previously Published on Medium
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