I saw you once at the zoo. 

You were 24 months that year. 

All snuggled in a blue onesie, 

head slack, eyes shut, happily slumped 

in the stroller.

 

Once on the playground. 

You were six that year. 

A daredevil on the swings, plunging from your seat 

and landing on the grassy ground beneath, careless of 

the pink skirt tangled around your legs.

 

Once in the bookstore. 

You were 10 that year. 

I caught a glimpse of your crystal blue eyes 

as you hungrily scanned the shelves for 

something enticing.

 

Once at the movie theatre. 

You were 15 that year. 

In a gaggle of girls, all prettied-up 

and loudly whispering the secrets of youth. 

Your hair a tight ball of curls just as mine had been.

 

Once on a college campus. 

You were 18 that year. 

Ready to leave and eager to be done with 

goodbyes, you rushed off without a second look back, 

a tall slender figure moving with determination.

 

Each time I saw you you looked well. 

You looked loved. 

I was relieved to give you up. 

I am content that you were ripped 

from me to be placed in another.

I am thankful that I saw you.

 

— Deanna M. Jessup