“You ARE a pretty girl”.

At twelve years old this was a first

Her mother had never uttered such words

Not to her, the youngest of four

But those words just hung in the hot summer air

She’d a saddle in her arms and sweat on her brow

Her long thin hair tied back with a red bandana

And those words just hung there, proof that they were said

So, as my little granddaughter, so much like her great aunt

Her thin hair in braids, a saddle in her arms

Looked up from her efforts, a smile on her face

Reminded me of my sister, I choked back my tears

I took those hanging words

And I put them to good use

Told my sweet grandchild for the hundredth time, I know

How very lovely and good she truly is