cold wet socks by the front door

December, the cold immersion of skin into snow. The walking of feet through crunching snows icy grip. The embrace of the warm house as you open that front door. The slow covering of greens and reds and browns with the pale shawl of winters frozen stare. The symbolic death, that harbors the forever vibrant falsetto of future births. The month of my daughter's birth. Tomorrow she will be 7 years old. Beauty is not noticed until you see a toothless little girl now grown tall, offer you her reasoning for her stategies for how to play a game of hangman or until you see her dancing around with blue frosting on her lip as she demonstrates some childhood excitement, or until you see her xmas list for tow wacky tackys (two walkie talkies:) tow more books, elmores glue, and tow t shirts, and a baby born doll. Simplicity and joy. Pride is her telling of how she won a prize for her reading at school. Pride is having her share her stories or listen to her sing her songs of flowers, ice cream, and peaches that she has written at various times. Pride is remembering how she would put bread and milk outside when she was younger so to "feed the ladybugs". It is the request for me to sing her goodnight song. It is the hugs she never forgets to share. It is the little smile that keeps on growing. It is a heart that is allowed to watch another heart grow.