She's the one with the quick and quiet wit that waits in line for the right moment to strike and comes out swinging for the fences only to retreat back into her shell with a blushing smile and a glint in her eyes that tells me she is proud and pleased with what she's done and the reaction that she saw register on my face.
Two years waiting for her to take root and grow, it seemed I already knew her when she came out and grabbed my finger for the first time, wrapped around my finger and my heart.
My second love. I read to her; I played with her before she was born, a game of run and tag, her foot kicking at the light I used to tease her with against her mother's stomach. Her heat permeated anyone she touched enticing them to be the cushion that she slept on, contoured memory foam for her to grow on, she had her pick of human mattresses to protect her as she napped.
Whatever she wanted, she got. Not to spoil her or to make excuses for a lack of attention or to excuse or cajole behavior, but to see her smile and squeal, her eyes light up with joy that someone thought of her and knew just what she wanted. It wasn't hard; she never hid it. You just had to give her clothes to deconstruct and rebuild into her world.
Even at six, she lived for expression, in fashion, in school, in paint, and dance. Her cloths, her socks, they never matched. Why should they? She rejected the matches others made (she didn't know them) and made her own. Intensely loyal and acutely attuned to others' feelings, she cried for others' pain and stood up for the rejected, sometimes sobbing in the car on the car ride home. She didn't even match her friends, but they still flowed together.
Her parties rocked and she would float between the groups of dance, or school, of church, of camp: lace, books, glasses, and camo. From movies under the stars, make-up in the room, and stages built to dance on, move on, she shined with everyone on whatever stage we built for her and put her on.
I've danced with her. It was best at the "princess balls," costume required. I was her prince, the king, and dinner date before dancing on the floor to music way too loud for both our ears. The first time, she danced with me alone and held my hand when friends came. A circle would ensue; we'd dance together. A hop with fervor in the air. I was still the stage she clung to.
With confidence came willingness to leave me for a while, short trips that soon got longer as the years went by and now I stand and watch her celebrate with friends away from me, but always with an eye to see me there, see me watching, still close enough to see her need should it arise, a visible anchor if she falls.
This year she asked me something different, She wanted me to blend in with the other dads who never seem to go-all-out. They where their suits and stand by the wall sipping beer and chatting to themselves, ignoring all around them: an illusion for her friends or maybe for her own new found sense of adventure, the need to venture out. She asked it to my wife, the sounding board, the go-between, to see if it would stick. I was crushed and she quickly changed her mind, but I've watched her dance, her own creations on the stages of her choosing.
I no longer match her style. I'm no longer the visible protector, partner, father, front-stage-participant, but that's okay. I know which way she's headed. My second love is looking for her independent place, the same one I gave her the confidence to take.
She still knows I'm there. I remind her. I tell her I love her... watching, blending, and waiting should the need arise.
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