Dear Miss Mae,
I pray when you are fourteen, thirty-five…fifty, I can remember how it felt as you wrapped you slender, delicate arms so tight around my neck while we danced around the living room as the sun was rising over the trees this morning. How, after a tight squeeze, you gently pat me on my back, only to ease your way into a smooch covered in the most innocent kind of love. You are a beauty.
You have some new cooler than cool dance moves. Moves that resemble a new born colt learning to walk. I’m convinced very few things in life could make me happier than experiencing you innocently and joyfully discover rhythm. You are already a better dancer than your Mama. :)