She is 12 years old.
She is beautiful and funny.
Instead of saying, Mom, you’re embarrassing me
she laughs and says, "Mom – you’re scaring me."
It’s her joke.

She is 12 years old.
She is in love with a boy from school.
And one from the theater.
She ponders herself in the mirror,
practicing for the rest of her life.
This is like one long rehearsal and she wants to be ready.

She is 12 years old.
She comes into my room late at night
– to check on me.
Not because the thunder woke her,
but because she thought maybe I needed something.

She is 12 years old.
She stamps her foot and bites her lip when she’s angry.
"Whatever."
And walks out of the room.
We both know she can’t stay mad for too long.

She is 12 years old.
She says "I love you" to
me, her dad, her brother and sister.
Aunts, uncles, cousins.
Friends from school.
Can’t bear to part company without letting her people know she loves them.
What if it’s the last she’ll ever see them? An accident or something
could part her from her loved ones – she worries about this.
She worries that the last words they hear from her won’t be
"I love you."