On a chilly February morning,
my youngest child gently patted my cheek 
to wake me up
to see tear filled eyes.

“I don’t know why
Everybody says I am a boy. 
I am not a boy.
I am a girl.”

I could feel time stand still
as memories of her life
unfurled before me,
and I felt it in my bones.

Yes,
yes,
this is right. 

Before she could speak, 
she would crawl.
Reaching for dolls,
all things pink,
sequined,
sparkly,
soft. 

When she could stand,
she toddled along to ballet routines- 
mimicking beautiful ballerinas,
waltzing as Clara-
never the Nutcracker. 

And then she found language. 
"I want to be…"
"I need to be…"
"I am..."
"I am."

I AM.

You see,
in hindsight,
she was telling us all along.
We looked at her body,
assumed gender,
and got it all wrong. 

So I smiled,
wiped her eyes,
held her tight,
and agreed,
“Yes,
you are a girl. 
My beautiful, perfect baby
girl.”

And now
my incredible daughter is transforming before my eyes

- becoming -

and I hurry
to contort myself
into a makeshift cocoon,
steeling myself
to protect her delicate insides
from the harshness awaiting outside.

How long
will she let me
hold her here?
I feel urgency
to protect her spirit,
her confidence,
her joy,
her bravery,
her fearlessness birthed from inexperience. 

Will her fragile wings 
carry her high
above it all,
above all that tries 
to pin her down?

Oh how I hope,
I hope,
I hope,
and then I know
the time will come and 
I will have to let go.