She lays her head in my lap and asks me to braid her hair. I weave my fingers through silky gold strands and remember when they were little more than feathery tufts. She holds my hand and talks of dolls and books, of science and world hunger. She shimmers between childhood and womanhood. She is a dream, a joy, she is my heart. She dances with rainbows and writes sonnets about unicorns.
Every day a miracle.