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She's My Daughter's Age

My daughter is her age

How am I to follow this girl
into the swords and spears of the enemy
when she is my daughter’s age?
she stands looking up at us and
we looking down
presenting to us the battle plan.
her small, thin, childish voice,
barely heard over the deep, loud voices of full grown men,
is feeble compared to past commanders.
she carries no weapon
only a small dagger
which her petite hands hold in the fashion of amateurs.
she wears the thinnest armor available,
her immature body unable to carry anything heavier.

She’s my daughter’s age

Her unruly hair,
a shade lighter than the coffee color of my daughter’s,
runs past her shoulders to the middle of her back.
an inch shorter than my daughter,
the top of her head does not even reach my shoulders.

She’s my daughter’s age
How am I-
“Amen”, she says as she finishes her prayer
reverently making the sign of the cross and walking back to her tent.

I stand there,
processing that last scene in awe
for she may be similar to my daughter
in age, height, and hair
but she has something my daughter does not

Faith.

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