The small pink shoe

My daughter turned nine today. And our country killed Osama bin Laden.

The coincidence is rich with meaning for me.

The first appointment with the midwife -- who would go on to deliver my child in a planned homebirth -- was scheduled for an otherwise unremarkable morning, September 11, 2001.

The midwife was late. Riveted to her computer as I was to our television, the horrific news of that morning hung over our visit. Neither of us could really discuss the details of childbirth at home, our hearts were so heavy and our minds racing to fully grasp what had just happened a hour or so before.

My daughter was born the following May in a country still grieving the more than 3,000 innocents killed some seven months before. I gave her the middle name of America.

Fast forward nine years to a routine rummage through my nightstand and the discovery of a small pink shoe. . .


Little pink shoe in the palm of my hand
Worn by the tiniest dancer of all.
At barely three years old, I still see her stand
At the barre where she seems so brave and so small.

Move through the positions, stepping once and again,
She knows how to bend and then how to begin,
Didn't want to take lessons, just wanted the clothes,
Tiny pink soft shoes to wear on her toes.

What happened to time?
Supposed to go slow
And my little dancer?
Where did she go?

When I found the little shoe, the realization that my daughter was once so small hit me hard and I started to cry. It all moves much too fast.