Ten. You are ten years old now. I don’t know where the last decade went. It seems like yesterday you were running around without pants on, your diapered bottom padding your fall when you lost your balance. It seems like just last week I was lying on the floor with you placed gently in the middle of your baby blanky when you discovered your toes. Your tiny little giggles were tinkling music notes in our flat, and I couldn’t imagine a day when you would be ten.
I couldn’t imagine a day when your curly, blonde little locks would form a straw straight bob and your icy baby blues would be a beautiful green; your chubby little legs and your chubby little cheeks would turn into long legs and a slender face.
I couldn’t imagine a day when the tear running down your cheek because you fell off the first step learning how to climb the stairs would turn into a tear because your best friend revealed to you that the girls at school think you’re poor. Or the tear that fell the first time someone called you a name because your skin was a different color; the one that fell when you realized that the B-word they were calling you was a bad word. Or the tear that fell when you saw the boy you really liked kiss the girl across the street.