She’s singing again, the nonsensical melody-less gibberish of youth… and the warmth in my chest expands, filling the dark hole inside of me and threatening to spill over.
She is the epitome of utter perfection, a beacon of light, brilliant in her effusiveness, skin purer than fine china, bright brown eyes shimmering impishly, sporadic toothy gapped grin snatching at the hearts of the masses.
Her presence launched emotions I never knew existed within me. Fascination. Awe. Pure, unadulterated and unquestioned love.
In her innocence, my reticence is melting.
If all else fails, I will die happy in the knowledge that my bruised and bitter loins can produce such unscathed fruit.
She’s running around naked again, limbs flailing erratically and pink tongue lolling out of her mouth as the high-pitched squeal of delight emits from this little bundle of energy whirling in circles in the midst of the sprinklers on the front lawn.
She’s naked and outside and wet and I should say something but I don’t, lingering at the doorway with a slight smile etched onto my face as I soak in the image.
One day, not too far in the future, she will close her door when she dresses, pull a towel around her body to walk from her room to the bathroom, and spend hours standing before the mirror sucking in her stomach and examining every pustule on her face.
She’s naked and outside and wet and I say nothing.
Because I know, already, that she will never be this free again.
She won’t shut up. She chatters about nothing, often not requiring any kind of comprehensive response, often engendering glares from passersby in public places.
She talks about what is happening presently, what happened yesterday, what’s happening tomorrow, what will happen next week. She talks about people, about places, about her hopes and dreams and fears.
She talks about emotions.
She is so refreshingly open.
One day, I will invade her room to search for drugs and diaries and God alone knows.
One day, I will know absolutely nothing.
She’s in love. The five-year-old kind of love where she scrawls his name across every surface while he obliviously masticates chalk. She picks out her wedding dress from magazines, meticulously plans the seating chart of her big day so that each doll will get along with those at its table, and bakes scrumptious delicacies of earthworm and manure that I politely accept but feign to swallow.
She is five years old and she is in love.
But already the demon of glum whispers in my ear that I should enjoy this while I can.
Being included. Knowing what is going on in her life.
Being aware of whom she loves.
Already my cynical eye spots disaster on the horizon.
A future of lies and secrecy and STDs and detachment and depression and abortion and alienation and anarchy.
Already the trepidation is settling its clammy fist around my stomach.
