My Independent Little Girl
She wakes before the sun, a pocket‑sized sunrise,
her socks mismatched like questions she’s already answered.
A notebook pressed to her chest, the world already
written in crayon margins—bold, un‑edited, un‑afraid.
She ties her own laces, a knot of stubborn resolve,
pulls the curtains aside, lets the streetlight spill
onto the kitchen table, where she sets her own schedule:
homework after breakfast, adventure before dinner.
The world tells her “be careful,”
she replies with a grin and a compass made of stickers—
north is wherever she decides to point her toe,
south is the hum of the fridge, a lullaby of independence.
She climbs the oak in the backyard, not to reach the clouds,
but to prove that height is measured in breath, not in branches.
From that perch she watches the ants march in a line,
and wonders why they follow rules she refuses to write.
When the rain taps the window, she doesn’t hide,
she catches the drops on her palm, lets them slip through—
each one a tiny rebellion against the notion that she must stay still.
She sings the chorus of a song she invented on the spot,
and the house answers back with the echo of her own confidence.
At night, when the moon hangs like a silver promise,
she tucks herself in, slides a note under the pillow:
“Tomorrow I will build a bridge from the hallway to the garden,
so I can walk straight into my dreams without tripping over fear.”
My independent little girl,
you are the echo of tomorrow in today’s hallway,
the soft thunder that shakes the quiet,
the fierce whisper that says “I can.”
And I, the witness of your first steps,
learn to let go, to watch you spin the world on your fingertip—
knowing that the most beautiful revolutions begin
with a child who decides, on her own, to turn.