Daughters and Debts

I stare at my daughter's tiny sleeping body as the morning light is slowly waltzing through the window across her face. She is beautiful at the tender age of eight with piano fingers that lay cupped below her cherub like cheeks. As she grows, I hope her beauty will not be erased like mine, by the scars blemishes leave behind. She is a loveable and fierce force that is still untamed and at times difficult, but through her father's eyes I see adoration and I have learned to love me.

I wish to make a paper plane that is more beautiful and glides faster on the breeze than the one molded by my mother.

I am overwhelmed at times by the love I feel for my daughter and with a full heart I will her to be more than the mother that bore her.