"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to let you in."

-- Robert Frost

Friday, July 23, 2010

Not much left of little

This girl is hitting teenage-hood in a big way. Not a bad way, but a big way. More time in the bathroom, more time on the hair, clothing needs, nail needs, and that certain waft of perfume in the air as she whisks through in the morning. But a more pleasant disposition could not be possessed.

It's killing me.

Recently on a trip to the pool, Celia disappeared to the dressing room to change into one of the two suits she'd brought but not set her mind on wearing yet. (Who does that? Oh yeah, my youngest sister). Upon exiting what seemed like a heck of a long time later, a friend I was with commented, "Wow, not much left that's little about that one, Marlowe." And it's stuck with me ever since.

I knew she meant physique but I've looked at Celia a hundred times since then and thought those thoughts again and again. She's growing up. She's only got five years left in my home. How did that happen? When did she get taller than me? When did she start wanting to email, save money for movies with friends, and rob my closet of clothing and shoes? Boy, that's gone fast and the next five will feel faster. I want to fill it with nights of her sitting on the foot of my bed talking in the dark. I want to fill it with those two and three hugs she still insists on giving me before bed as a stall tactic. I want to fill it with afternoons laying on a blanket in the grass staring up at the clouds. Because five years is nothing and there's not much left that's little.

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