Between Bruises & Blooms

I know what it means
to watch children grow.

To fold away clothes
that fit only weeks ago.

To find shoes
abandoned by the door,
already too small
for the feet
that once filled them.

I know the strange grief
of watching childhood
disappear
while the child
is still right there.

But you—

I never got
to complain
about how quickly
you were growing.

Never got to discover
that your sleeves
had climbed your wrists
or that your shoes
were pinching your toes.

Never got to hold
a little dress
against you
and wonder
when you became
so tall.

Eleven years
should have left
evidence.

Scuffed sneakers.
Outgrown sweaters.
A drawer full
of things you refused
to throw away.

Instead,
I am left imagining
the shape of a girl
time never allowed me
to see.

Your siblings keep growing.

I keep folding away
the years.

And somewhere
between their old clothes
and the ones
they haven’t grown into yet,

I miss
all the little versions
of you
that never got
to exist.