That girl who did the diaper waddle-run to greet me at the door when I got home.
The one who I caught and pulled up into a hug.
Who smelled like baby and joy.
That’s our daughter.
That girl who carefully arranged all the stuffed animals on her bed.
The one who gave a name to each one, and a backstory to explain their relationships.
Who cried when the dog ripped the arm off one but forgave the dog immediately.
That’s our daughter.
That girl who agonized over the dress she would wear to her grade 8 graduation dance.
The one who wore her grandmother’s earrings, even though they didn’t quite match.
Who said that it’s more important to have a piece of family with her than to be perfect.
That’s our daughter.
That girl who was so excited to go the concert with her friends.
The one who danced to the music with her eyes closed and her heart open.
Who heard the trucks approach but didn’t understand the sound.
That’s our daughter.
That girl we watched pulled by terrorists from a jeep, shirtless, with her head bent low.
The one who had blood running down her arms, and pants soaked in blood at the crotch.
Who stumbled numbly as she was herded away to choruses of “God is great”.
That’s our daughter.
That girl whose capture and rape is being celebrated as some kind of victory.
The one with family that had to watch that video.
Who we may never see again, except in our nightmares.
She has parents. She is their daughter. She is a daughter to us all.
Experience Has Made Me Rich 