It's Zo's birthday. She's one year old already. She, so small, so courageous, so loving, so happy. She is brave and crazy. Like me. She holds her smile so proudly. So unaffected. Unlike me.
Our family tends to handle stressful and emotional times... terribly. We all feel so much. Apathy? Empathy? Fear? Words are often used as weapons. Glances are used as swords.
So as we head to a happy birthday party, I will try to not think of it as a going away party. But, in a sense, it is one.
Zo likes to eat onions. She smiles and points to what she wants. Her limbs are tiny and her plump cheeks are made of sweetness. She speaks in goose/teradactyl and she is soft. I am in love with her, and every time I see her I fall in love again.
1 comment:
She IS made out of butter. I know, I tried a bite. Mmm.
And it's not a goodbye party. Think how much time I'll be here over breaks--it's more like a "welcome to your fractured life party." In my bio for the Arts Festival or for a lit mag or something, I wrote "she divides her time between Michigan and Utah" See. Not so bad.
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