For Adara

Hold her close, said the mother to the friend.
I'm 26 now, but she'll never be 5 again.
My first born baby grew up somehow.
And I never saw, though it was under my brow.

She's grown so tall, so smart, and so free.
When looking at her it's like a portrait of me.
Her eyes may be green - that's her daddy you see.
But her brown curly hair - she gets that from me.

She'll be leaving next fall, on the school bus - I'll cry.
I'll be waving though tears - tears she'll never see.
Mommy is strong - or so she seems to be.
That big yellow bus will take my baby away.
But it will bring her home at the end of her day.

So hold her close, said the mother to her friend.
Addition and subtraction isn't what she'll remember in the end.
Those last minute stories and long talks at night,
and the cups of hot cocoa made just right.
She'll remember the times us mommies forget.
In the end the hugs and the kisses she'll remember best.