Her Letters

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Can’t believe today she pulled pine green thin marker across Mother’s Day paper,

Made her way over F and learned the downward slope of R, the slide that distinguishes it from P.

She has her own formula for M, the consistent last pull of the left stick joined to Vl. Her pull is consistent. Never is this line neglected. She knows M is me, Melissa and Mommy. Maki, maple syrup moonlight following her down streets and even into train cars.

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It was the R that got her, or maybe F, fickle and flummoxed. “Writing is not for kids” this one proclaimed, while staring down at her angled, not round enough O. “It is not for kids”.

But then, out of some real need, some internal prodding, she asked, “Mommy, is this the word, “from”?

Pine green, the crunch of iceberg lettuce all showing up in letters, straight, strong, and gleaming with meaning. This is what it is to witness your daughter making Mother’s Day cards to her Baba and Godmother. I was so charmed, so absolutely excited, and playing it cool, I forgot to take any pictures.

The cards have flown off now, perhaps pinned to fridges, maybe on a dresser. I wanted to say more, how it all came from her, how I did not have her copy. There was no promise of sugary dessert following the meltdown of P popsicle. I did not lure her with reward. It was all her own lines, the stroke of a three year old girl. Letters were drawn on the inside, as well as in the card.

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