You should be eleven.
Not a memory.
Not a photograph.
Not a date
I brace myself for.
Eleven.
Old enough
to have favorite songs
I might pretend
not to hate.
Old enough
to roll your eyes at me,
borrow things without asking,
slam a bedroom door,
then come back five minutes later
because you forgot
what you were mad about.
I should know
how you laugh.
I should know
whether you love books,
hate mornings,
sing too loudly,
or leave socks
everywhere.
I should know
who you are becoming.
Instead,
I know the weight
of wondering.
The shape
of every version of you
I never got to meet.
And somehow,
my heart keeps making room
for all of them.
The little girl.
The eleven-year-old.
The daughter
you would have been.
The daughter
you still are.
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