This girl of mine, not entirely mine, this girl of the world. She of another mother and mine all the same. She is at once sweet and surly, kind and impatient, brilliant and sorely incapable of discarding her trash.
She is mine, not entirely mine.
And today – or as close as we know it – she is 14. Long-limbed, questioning, always listening to (or playing) music, she beguiles me. It makes sense that her roots are Hunan, for she is full to brimming with spice.
Superlatives simply are not enough. Not enough to describe her and certainly not enough to hold her. It occurs to me that she’s two-thirds of the way to 21. And I think, how can it be? Wasn’t I just handing her baby-self, all gangly and gnat-bitten, a Cheerio while sitting cross-legged on a Hunan hotel carpet? Wasn’t she just wide-eyed at her big sister, seemingly after days-on-a-plane, locking on to her like a heat-seeking missile? Wasn’t she just in elementary school, hefting a trombone much bigger than she?
And where will she go from here?
She is a delight, occasionally a challenge (as is her teenaged obligation), and always an honor to parent, this girl of mine.
Mine, not entirely mine, this girl of the world.