A decade with you

For Clementine on her 10th birthday

One week before your 10th birthday
you rest your head on my lap under the
willow tree at the park on one of the
first days the sun felt hot and real.

I counted the freckles on
your tulip nose. 109.

Plus, more so tiny and shaded
I cant number them all.
But memorized them nonetheless.

You, in turn, categorize the freckles,
spots I never even noticed –
and markers that have been there
since I was a little girl.
On my leg where your cheek sinks
into my lap like a pillow.
Coming to a similar number. 106.

215 freckles counted on April 21.

Freckles we both grew over a decade
of cell shedding and growing and becoming.
And, somehow I see you all grown up;
it doesn’t scare me.
Because I’ll count more markers
and changes and say goodbye
to the ones that blend into your
sun-kissed skin over time.

And we will keep shedding.

But, I also know you’ll
always lay your head in my
crossed-legs on the grass
under the splintered sun through
the willows when I ask
to count them again.
When I ache to see what’s changed.

I can’t wait to see what new
monuments have marked you
when your 12 or 22 or 45.
The art of noticing is one we
do well, and every blemish on your
perfect skin I will count, and name,
and categorize like a library
of poetry we wrote together
before we ever sat in this
welcomed spring sun.