No Longer

There will be many more New Year's Eve nights. There will be many more First Night Austin celebrations. But, someday soon it will no longer be the two of us. We will take her, bundled up and cozy in her hat with the puffy frays on top, wrapped safely in her daddy's arms.

We will find the best spot possible on the curb and wait for the parade. She will want to run out into the street with all the other kids to catch a glimpse of the start to the parade. She will say over and over, "Mamma, when is it gonna start?"

The parade will begin and she will squeal with delight, clapping her hands together and saying, "Mamma, did you see that one?" with each passing group. She'll want to eat kettle corn, funnel cakes, and drink hot chocolate. She'll want to buy the glow sticks and wave them around with vigor. The fireworks will start and she will say, "That one's my favorite," to every firework exploding in the sky.

I will relish in her happiness, her smile and her giggles. She will become cranky and I will try my best to distract her, talk to her, engage her until the time comes when we must leave. She will fall asleep in the car, sacked out until her daddy places her softly in her bed. She will hug his neck and whisper, "Thank you, daddy. That was fun."

There will be many more New Year's Eve nights. But soon, no longer will we spend them as a family of two.