She rides shotgun now.
And wears my shoes. The ones that no longer fit me.
At a certain point you’re supposed to stop growing. At least most of you is supposed to stop.
My feet grew though. A half size times three.
She’s the oldest. Responsible for the first half size of podiatric stretch.
She’s responsible for so much.
She’s next to me. Her profile growing more refined with each glance. I can barely see the baby see once was.
My shoes won’t fit her next year.
Then she turns to me. Her eyes have not changed.
Their blue grey shining with the reflection ice lacquered trees outside her window. Reflecting my love. And making my heart grow a half size.
“Keep your eyes on the road, mama,” she says.