Give me those moments back.
The minutes and hours I crushed between my fingers like rosary beads, anxious for her to finish nursing, to start walking or learning to read. Give me back all those precious seconds I wasted, fumbling for my camera. Tell her to slow down. To turn seven again tomorrow, instead of eight.
I promise to read one more book when she asks, play one more round of whatever game she's designed, laugh instead of shout when she spills her juice, again. Give back to me even one second of one moment I wasted worrying about her future—or mourning my past—and I will wade deeply in it, up to my thighs, soaking up every sound and sight.
She is a gift, this golden girl and she's turning eight tomorrow.
And there's nothing I can do about it now.