Word Play

Not that long ago, eight years to be exact,
Alex and I went into a dingy meeting room
and waited for a little girl
with long, brunette hair and wearing a newly purchased purple dress
to walk into our lives.
She was keen–her eyes darted about the place and
rarely glanced at us;
she had no words
to tell us what she was thinking.
We laugh now because we have to shush her
constantly–her chatter box giggles with excitement
when her grandpa calls to sing his wishes for her Happy Birthday,
or friends Skype in to say, “Hello.”
She has a million little stories about the
kids at school. Normal stuff. Kid stuff. The stuff that
all kids have. And that is miraculous for our little Bre-
Just yesterday, she (all four foot eight of her) put her sassy little hand
on her hip and exclaimed to her dad, “I’m a teenager, Dad. I can take care of myself.”
Right, missy, Go for it. She, of all people, probably could.
She’s feisty and indomitably happy.
She is sweet–she does nice things for kids she thinks are being
picked on–even when others pick on her for doing it–
She’s funny–
She has more fun hanging out with her brother Bruce
than he even realizes.
She’s the light of our life
She’s strong and sweet,
She’s our Bre and we love her.
Happy Birthday, you teeny-bopper you!