There is a list of things I know I will forget.
The list is ever growing.
The list is endless.
The size and shape of her finger nails,
the pillowiness of the tops of  her feet.
How she looks up at me from a tangle of blankets
as I kiss my hand and bring it to her forehead,
repeating the phrase, I love you,
despite its inadequacy.
The way she appraises every stone in the gravel driveway
as if it were a planet of its own.
A trip we took to the beach
when she ran her fingers through sand for the first time.
So many first times.

If I weren’t her mother
I would choose to be the wrinkle in her elbow
or the gap between her teeth.
I would settle for a bird
that crosses the sky above her, igniting
if only for the briefest of moments,
something like pure wonder.

What I will remember is the endless love.