Outgrown
You've outgrown your PJs,
the ones I bought a year ago
that seemed so big at the time,
and now here they are -
inches above your wrists and ankles,
worn through at your elbows and knees.
I feel that familiar pang,
the one that plunders my chest
each time I pack up your clothes,
each time I pack up our memories
and say a hasty goodbye
to another version of you -
the one who wore these faded PJs
for family movie nights and bedtime stories,
through good dreams and bad,
on lazy weekend mornings full of cuddles and cartoons,
and on the days you were too sick to change,
sleeping beside me all day.
Now here they are, outgrown,
full of memories... yet empty.
I think about the things I hope you never outgrow.
The innocence that gives you faith.
The imagination that gives you possibility.
The empathy that makes you kind.
The curiosity that makes you wonder.
And though I'll desperately miss this version of you,
the little person you've outgrown,
I can't wait to meet the next one.
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