Today,
there should have been
eleven candles.
Eleven wishes
spoken through laughter,
cake icing on your fingertips,
and a room too full
of love to ever feel quiet.
Instead,
I celebrate
my little ladybug.
The tiniest soul
who only knew this world
for three and a half hours,
yet somehow
has lived in my heart
for every day
since.
You never learned
to say “Mama.”
You never took
your first steps,
started school,
or stayed up too late
telling me
about your day.
Time never carried you forward.
It carried the rest of us
through birthdays
you should have had,
through seasons
you should have seen,
through years
that somehow
kept passing
without you.
But love…
Love never stopped
counting you.
Your brothers know
they have a sister.
Your little sisters
have a big sister
watching over them.
And I still speak your name
as easily
as I speak theirs.
Because you are
not a memory
I visit.
You are my daughter.
My first little girl.
My ladybug.
Eleven years.
Eleven birthdays.
Eleven times
I’ve wished
I could kiss your forehead,
hold your hand,
and watch you
blow out your candles.
Instead,
I’ll light one for you.
I’ll smile through tears.
I’ll imagine
the young woman
you might have become.
And I’ll thank you
for teaching me
that a life
doesn’t have to be long
to leave
an everlasting love.
Happy 11th Birthday,
my sweet Ladybug.
Not a day goes by
that I don’t carry you with me.
Forever loved.
Forever missed.
Forever my daughter.
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