you're in your room
packing a huge bag for the bus trip,
observed by favourite girlfriends and brothers,
poncying around in your sundress and heels,
talking pig latin, singing crazy lyrics,
flicking things at each other down the hallway,
guffawing great belly laughs.
you're trying to squeeze your sewing machine
in with your teddy bear and all the necessities
of the first few months of independence
and i am remembering the day you were born:
flying down the motorway at a hundred,
a perfect birth, a rosebud girl,
lipstick still on my lips.
daddy's voice, "belle, you will marry me!"
as you flew shrieking around the lounge
in the days of a thousand dress-ups
and now, you're flying solo.
ain't gonna lie, i'm gonna miss you every day.
your intuitiveness, your culinary rescues, your song.
outrageous fortune and sherlock marathons,
minions and facebook funnies and
mum, read this book: i think you'll really like it.
you've taught me so much about the world:
finding strength in the hard moments,
icing on cupcakes, long-distance love.
i snapped this photo earlier in the secret garden:
the white irises thought you look stunning
inside and out, which you do.
my fairy godmother, always remember:
there is music in you...