Eleven

She's 11 today.

It's not a big birthday; not a momentous one with the prestige of officially becoming a teen at 13, or turning Sweet 16. No, eleven is quieter. Subtle. A slight interlude between child and young woman. A cusp. Eleven catches in the throats of her father and I. She's not a baby anymore.

Her feet are the same size as mine.

Yesterday she cried. Soulful tears of a child because it was the last day that she could attend day care. Eleven is the cut-off age. Suddenly she's too old to be dropped off amidst preschoolers in the morning. She had to tell them all good-bye. She was 10, now eleven. She's on her own today.

She stood against the wall where pencil lines mark the start of every school year. She grew 4 inches.

She's 11 today. A beautiful girl who knows she's cute; who thinks she's pretty. She has no idea that she is heart-achingly exquisite. But we do.