I’ve tried to bridge the divide over the years, nurturing interests we could pursue together, or at least at the same time.[11] They have a name for this at her preschool: parallel[12] play. It’s what kids do when they want to be around a friend but not necessarily play with that friend. It’s a good metaphor[13] for Nina and me. When she was younger, we could share long afternoon walks this way. She would fill her pockets with rocks, rooting herself to the earth in purple-sandaled feet while I, inches away, watched birds skitter above.[14]
Soon enough, however, she went off to elementary school[15], leaving our afternoon walks and me behind. So when Nina interrupted my “me” time in the kitchen that lazy Saturday morning, I welcomed her quiet companionship.[16]
Nina stood over the kitchen table that morning for several minutes, moving pen over paper. Then, as quickly as she had begun, she finished. She pushed the pad[17] of paper back in my direction, and skipped out of the kitchen.
I pulled the notepad toward me, and read the note. I read it again. And then again, and again, so there could be no mistake. Nina had written a poem. A beautifully literate[18] poem. About me!
Mom is a
Golden Delicious
the softest apple
in the world
I sat dazed[19] for several minutes, holding the notepad in midair.
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