You came around the corner groggy and sleepy-eyed, and the image of you made me think of me, because we’re alike when we haven’t finished resting. We’re ready for nothing, especially people and noise and light and whatever else the world is doing without us. We are fine with relinquishing movement to other abnormal souls, at normal hours, as they move about while we find the fleeing dreams and the soft snores.
But there, in Mama’s kitchen, you inched over, making up your mind whether to be happy or intruded upon. I hadn’t seen you in I can’t remember how long. And you gave me a gift, and smiled. The look of it was like a long holiday season.
In front of me was the girl, and you will always fortunately and unfortunately be a girl to me, who had become my niece on an early June day so long ago. And just like that you had become a grown woman.
And you joined us in our kitchen conversation: me, Mama, and you. It was a gift that I want to keep, a memory I want to love.