nothing but air

She’s your daughter. You have no doubts on that account. She’s got the same laugh, the same wrinkled nose when she smiles, same gestures. Even that voice.

But she’s old. Those nose wrinkles are more permanent, matched by crow’s feet, sagging skin, white hair. Not gray. White. She’s the same four-and-a-half-year-old in everything but face.

She’s bouncing on the bed, which she knows is not ok, but she’s got that smile and you’re disinclined to stop her. Especially because of that face. She’s seen so much, experienced so much.

She ages in front of you. Dying, maybe. How can she be this frail, this fragile, this aged? Her entire short life flashes before you.

She bounces across the bed. “Papa! Pick me up.” You reach out to nothing but air.