Mythili, 5
she has the same deep-set eyes and heavy brows,
the same rounded nose and thick pink lips as her father,
but as she sits beside him at the table,
shyly peeling every tiny piece of white from the Clementine
and piling them, meticulously as a worker ant,
on the table,
as she raises her eyes and offers me that
quiet smile still filled with baby teeth,
then takes a moment to rediscover what her
older, loud-mouthed sister is up to downstairs,
I know that truly, she is my daughter.

Isabella, almost 7
in an instant she can recite the alphabet in two languages,
always trying to fill in the letters for her sisters;
she lives for her Girl Scout meetings,
hates when the neighbors pick on her
to the point that she will pout and want to cuddle
like a toddler in my lap,
and she always, always, always
has to be the boss, be right, and be defiant,
as if to remind me, day in and day out,
just who I was at age seven.

Riona, 3
don’t mess with the youngest who, upon a recent approach
to a button outside of an elevator,
screamed, “It’s my turn!”
her hands outstretched like miniature wings
in her oversized puffy purple jacket,
rushing in front of two older sisters
her eyes sharp and holding perfectly a glare
that belongs on a much older child,
and proudly pushing the button
before anyone else could go near it.