Breath

I don't know where her chubby ankles have gone,
or the rolls on her toes.
I don't know when the sweet smell of milk faded from her breath,
or where the dimples on the back of her hands have gone.
I don't know where her soft coos have gone,
or her chubby thighs.
I don't know where the wise look in her eyes came from,
or her questions.
I don't know when she learned how to say "please" and "thank you".
I don't know where the time has gone, but it has taken with it the remnants of new life. So I'll store moments like these away in my memory, for the time when she goes to school for the first time, or drives her first car, or has a heart old enough to be broken, or moves away, or for when she bares babies of her own. I'll pull these memories to the forefront of my mind, and remember the time we shared when she was young and fragile, a time when she laid next to me in the cool of the afternoon, serenading my heart with her steady breath.