I am four, almost five. My shoes sparkle and my party dress flatters even when I run. My hair flies free and falls in my face which I sweep away with the back of my hand. My smile reveals my slightly crooked bottom tooth which is correcting with age but I prefer silly faces.

I am four, almost five. I have allergies but that doesn’t keep me from enjoying the finer things in life. Hot chocolate fills my glass and crispy bacon and pasta with butter fills my belly.

I am four, almost five. Gradually losing the adjective of big before girl. My age is a number, a course marker showing the distance I’ve come, a collection, albeit small, of experiences that is paving the way ahead.

I am four, almost five. I unknowingly wield my feminine power through my moodiness and tantrums. And in certain moments, at certain angles, in certain circumstances, my gaze belies my age.