"Look, Megan!" she cries happily, swinging her legs in the booster seat next to me.
So I look, but not at what she wants me to look at. I look at her: hair and eyelashes turning from sandy brown to liquid gold in the sunlight, her smooth skin with its bit of tan, her smiling pink lips.
If I were a poet perhaps I would write about her more, more than the little anecdotes and funny sayings. I would find a way to capture how she is the most beautiful, perfect creature I've ever seen in my life, how I love her so much that it hurts, but a sort of pain so precious that you wouldn't give up a moment of it for a thousand years of pleasure.
But I don't have the words to describe it well; I only have these few halting sentences which I will put up anyway so that maybe someday she reads this and gets at least a little glimpse of my heart.