My daughter and I walk onto brilliant shades of green. Her tiny cleats scarcely pierce the firm ground beneath us. Her hand is in mine.
To her, I am this all-knowing, flawless being. Her curiosity about me ranges from what kind of candy I liked the most when I was her age to wondering if I watched iCarly too.
My daughter makes me want to be a better person. I strive to be the woman she already believes I am.
Above us, bountiful clouds float ever so lazily along a magnificently blue sky.
She looks up at me, then again turns her glance downward. The sun glare is too intense for her very young and delicate eyes.
The fragrant scent of newly blossomed spring flowers drifts enchantingly through the air. Freshly painted white lines precisely and methodically regulate each field. Cheering voices rise and fall.
She sees her friends, and she lets go of my hand. My heart sinks, but only for a moment. I quickly rebound from the separation anxiety mothers feel yet seldom admit to.
I watch from the sidelines as she greets her teammates. Their huddle is an amazing and adorable blend of ponytails, giggles, and determination.
As time goes by, I will cherish these game days—keeping them in my memory through the tickings and the tocks.
The whistle blows. She scores a goal. Excited, she runs to me. I hug her, place a kiss upon her cheek, and I treasure her as she is now.
