The Original Niece

The Original Niece

Before there were four,

there was you.

The first niece.

The one who arrived

and quietly changed my name.

I had been a daughter,

a sister,

a granddaughter,

a cousin—

and then suddenly,

because of you,

I was an aunt.

You were the first child

I learned to love

from this particular distance—

close enough to cheer,

far enough to watch

you become your own person.

I watched you grow

before I understood

how quickly growing happens.

One minute,

you were the little girl

at the beginning of the story.

Then somehow,

while the adults were distracted

and probably looking for somebody’s shoes,

you began becoming yourself.

Curious.

Strong.

Learning what you believe,

what you want,

and how much of the world

you are willing to let define you.

I love you in the way

that watches without demanding

to be noticed.

The way that remembers

the child you were

while making room

for the person you are becoming.

If I seem quieter now,

it is not because the love grew smaller.

Some love simply changes position.

It stops hovering nearby

and learns to stand back,

steady and certain,

ready when needed.

I am still cheering for you.

Still proud of you.

Still interested in every chapter,

even the ones I only hear about later.

You may have been

the first niece,

but you were also

the beginning of something in me—

the first person

who taught me

that being an aunt means

loving someone as they grow away from you

without ever loving them less.

Before there were four,

there was you.

The original niece.

The one who made me an aunt

and gave all the love that followed

somewhere to begin.

One of four tributes to the people who made me an aunt.