_{This is her favourite hoodie bought for her by her dad}

Bonding over maths, tears rolling here and there,
I mediate sometimes, but it's mostly him and her.

Something unique, no interference do they seek,
Yet full-blown tantrums, when silence is too bleak.

First-born's love, she is the daughter of her dad,
He sat by her cot's side, long nights never sad.

The world followed, but in love's own art,
She's always been the queen of his heart.

They fight and argue, and they do it like all,
But they can't be away from each other for more than half an hour.

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It warms my heart to witness scenes like these. My daughter and husband are not particularly poetic or expressive individuals. Their love language is entirely different. The yearning for late-night pastas and the never-ending debates over ever-annoying soundtracks make their bond unique.

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The title Good Things Take Time of my poem/ prose has nothing to do with it's contents. It's just that she has worn this hoodie for 95 percent of these and previous winters. I'm begging her to wear something different, something colorful, something less grey. She agrees, but then after some time, I see her changed back into her PJs and this favourite hoodie of hers, which, according to her, is the most comfy things on the face of planet earth. I like the message written on its back, by the way.

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Life is beautiful; if not, we have to make it. Because they say, "What is meant to be will always find a way..." ~ Trisha Yearwood

Wishing everyone of you a beautiful and peaceful life, today and always.

Love and blessings,
Maan