Riona

there was a time not so long ago
when I worried you wouldn’t walk
contented as could be you sat happily
on your bottom, legs refusing to straighten

adorable, yes, but not for a mother.
how I ached for people to stop asking
for you to reach up, put your palms on a chair,
and stand.

you are four now. Four! and have tucked
stairs, one at a time, into your steps of experience,
have learned to chase after your sisters,
rarely even begging to hold my hand to steady you.

it wasn’t a mistake that I asked my friend to
draw, in perfect artistic beauty, your favorite pets
on a pair of (my all-time favorite shoes)
Converse Chuck Taylors for your birthday. Shoes.

for my youngest girl who is perfectly happy to dig in
to the hand-me-down box and pull out a “new” pair.
But no. Those shoes are yours, only yours, and on the
same day you put their magic on your feet,

your bottom in your brand-new non-baby swing,
digging your toes into the grass to make a dirt hole
(“just like under my sisters’ swings”)
you learned how to pump. all. by. yourself.

i will never know, Riona, I will never know
what will bring more tears to this mother’s eyes:
your first step at twenty months
or your legs in the air at four years old.

Isabella

Grandma reads a book to your sisters
(you hate reading).
you sit on the couch,
swing your legs,
jump up, jump down,
grab blocks,
knock them over,
dash into the kitchen,
pick up a set of toys,
jolt over the coffee table,
sing a song.

Grandma asks your sisters
to answer a question
about the book.
Before a split second has passed,
you’ve already slipped in
the answer.
“How can these girls say anything
with this one around?”

“It’s true,” you admit.
“I know everything.”
You pick up a set of plastic bugs
and bolt away,
my speed demon of elder knowledge.

Mythili

you are so proud to be
the five-almost-six-year-old
who takes steps into the school
every day after your sister,
backpack on back,
lunch in hand,
ready for kindergarten.

i watch your smile
as you tell stories about
the block towers you’ve built,
as you “read” every detail
of pictures in elaborate tales
much better than the actual words
written in the books you love.

all i see,
beneath the layers of
worldly knowledge you have
acquired upon entering school,
is my baby girl with
her baby teeth still on top.

until they loosen,
fall into an apple or Daddy’s palm,
wait in a pillow for the Tooth Fairy,
i will hold on to this smile of yours.
it is yours, yes,
but it is mine, too.