She’s three years old. Nothing in her mind has ever said no, don’t, or stop. She dances, because there is music. Her questions are simple, all they seek is answers. There is no irony in any pause within her speech. She can have fun without you, or me, or anyone else for that matter. Her love is discounted, but not cheap. Her heart full of joy and devoid of confusion. I will happily bleed for her contentment, though the concept is beyond her. I wake long before her and pray for her safety, but I suppose my worry is lost and vane. I’ve never counted her hairs, nor numbered her days; hell I can barely remember her age. Innocent yet belligerent, mindless whilst insightful. Like a vampire, I gaze upon a mirror where I ought to see myself, but I’m more than glad I don’t; this is mine, but this does not belong to me. This is my child, this is a gift I serve. And that’s what I’ll do, with every nerve that contends, with every stone that I turn and every pulse of my strength. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, and never alone. Never.