Sometimes I wonder what she would think of me,
The little girl standing on the step stool.
Not tall enough to reach the stove on her own,
yet old enough to follow another diet cookbook shown.

She was five, trying to make her mother happy.
In the pan a new spoonful of pancake batter,
A surprise sunday breakfast she made with her father.
The early morning filled with hushed whispers and muffled laughter.

It was a surprise, just for her mother,
A day that she wouldn't need to think about what she ate.
But there was not a moment that calories wouldn't count,
Not a...