Eight Girl

She wants more of the world, 

though each piece she has, she carries on her shoulders.

Days like this day, her birthday, 

I remember that she has always been the same. 

The baby that rarely napped.

The toddler who wouldn't be nannied by the tv.

The girl writing her alphabet by three.

And asking questions about death and life and love.

The forever 'bored' Primary schooler.

And the girl ahead of her years.

She is a thinker. 

A doer.

An asker.

Ofttimes a worrier.

But if I find her engrossed in a book, or listening to her favourite song on the ipod, or in her first few hours of night time sleep, she is at odds with that girl.

Her mind is at rest.

Her cheeks so perfect and pink.

Her eyelashes long and dreamlike.

Her golden streak of hair floating past her face.

She is divine, and dreamy.

And in those moments I am reminded that she is simply my sweet girl, now eight years on from being my sweet baby.