I look at you, and I see your eyelashes flutter as I rocked you to sleep, the sounds of laughter as we played peek-a-boo, the widening of your eyes as you took in every object, every person, every sound.
I look at you, and I see your tiny feet scampering across the floor, the way you'd stretch your arms to ask me to carry you, how you'd squeal with delight as you'd chase bubbles and spin in circles.
I look at you, and I see you slowly sounding out words on my lap, how your backpack overpowered your tiny frame, how your eyes narrowed in concentration as you practiced tying your shoes, your little legs pumping on the swings, your face lighting up as I held you in my arms and danced around the room.
I look at you, and I see you reading chapter books on your bed, putting your arm through mine as we take walks, brows furrowed as you help me bake, your head resting on my shoulder as we listen to music, your giggles as you tell me a joke.
I look at you, and I see every moment of you. The echoes of the past, the calling of the present, and the gentle whispers of what will come. I see my baby, my little girl, and my not-so-little girl all in front of me.
I look at you, and I see everything. And I am so grateful for all of it.