Somehow together you and Acorn become as naughty as two puppies: The time you each gorged on grapes, afraid the other would consume all the “balls.” The food fight we barely forestalled. Alone, you took my hand and quietly but enthusiastically explained your toy trains: their personalities, their friends.
I am a participant in x365.
Ten years old, your blue eyes sparkled with mischief and love. You volunteered for a trip to the hated grocery store to get time with me, and showed me how to find secret Pokémon. You’d never before known a relative who wasn’t your parent or sister.
I am a participant in x365.
I admired your sleek black hair and never noticed your missing hand until a fellow seventh-grader pointed it out. You patiently and steadfastly turned down, each day, the efforts of Christian classmates to save your soul.
I am a participant in x365.
“See, I just don’t like that, I can’t respect that,” he said. “Some kids just are weird, they can’t help it, they have to be. It’s just who they are. You, you’re going out of your way to be weird, to get attention or something. It’s stupid. Drop the act.”
[...]
Did you ever know we called you “Miss Blue?” You earned it for the ceaseless way you complained. Visiting a relative who was literally on her deathbed and announcing that she just might have to move over so you could join her, your ingrown toenail hurt so bad — that cemented your place in family lore.
[...]
Dear Acorn,
At three and a half (that’s forty-two months! Douglas Adams fans should be delighted), you’ve developed quite the sense of humor. True, you’re holding onto habits you developed in your speech-delayed toddlerhood, so your humor more often takes the form of physical jokes than spoken words. For instance, peek-a-boo continues [...]
You made so many quilts: some beautiful, others somehow missing the mark, though we admired them all for your superb handiwork. Before the end, we finally realized you were partly colorblind. (You never knew.) Looking back on those quilts, imagining them in greyscale, I now see their full glory.
I am a [...]
When I was four and you twenty, I held my breath as you placed your beloved parakeet on my shoulder.
“Awwwww,” I sighed, looking in the mirror.
“No, no, don’t tilt your head like that,” you said as the bird inched down my arm. “You’ll squash him.”
“But he’s so cute!” I said.
I am a participant [...]
Before I left your high school you asked me what I planned to be when I grew up. I gave you whatever answer I had then.
“Have you considered being a writer?” you asked.
“…I thought you meant besides that,” I said.
Thank you for that vote of confidence.
I am a participant in x365.
What kind of person tells a bride that she shouldn’t eat such a big slice of her own wedding cake if she wants to be able to fit into that dress again, anyway?
I am a participant in x365.