Sometimes I look at pictures of my daughter and I think -- or perhaps fear -- that I can see the future, or at least see visions of a version of a possible future.
I see traveling packs of skaters and boys with BMX bicycles riding up and down our street, doing live-action stupid human tricks, landing face-first in my rose bushes.
I see skinned knees and scabby elbows and numerous attempts to build a ramp in the backyard out of plywood and PVC piping and spray paint and glitter Hello Kitty stickers.
I see a raggedy 10-speed with a basket on the front filled with Pop Rocks and Coke and Cool Ranch Doritos and a cell phone filled with misspelled text messages.
I see the next ten years flashing before my eyes like a trick of the light, her childhood evaporating in front of me like baseball cards disintegrating in the spokes after a good hard rain.
Sweet cracker sandwich, I am not ready for this. Can't she just stay three-and-three-quarters forever?