O Evabird, I thought you might forever smell like pears and lavender. Already you're changing, already you smell of waffles and mango and sometimes chlorine or sleep or crumbs. I try to take in every bit of you before you change again, before you start smelling like sweat or salty ocean or running-through-the-fields, like cherry lip gloss or lollipops or Scratch-n-Sniff stickers, before you smell of drugstore perfume and backyard Truth-or-Dare, of places I've never seen, people I've never met.
Tonight when I was giving you your bath, I squeezed the water from the rag and watched the drops roll down your back and wondered what on earth it was I did all those days before you; I mean, I really wondered. I'm still wondering, and I can only guess that I'll be wondering for a long, long time, at least until the days before you were so long ago that I can hardly even fathom them. Happy 261st day, my little wild-eyed wonder. So much of the world for you to see; so much of you to see the world. Sweet coconut cream dreams.