1 + 1 = Chopsticks on the counter.

She called me this afternoon as I was getting ready to leave my house. School has let out for the summer, and the idleness has already swept in. Alone with her thoughts and wearing out her favorite camera, she takes a break. She told me she was hiding in a tree as she talked to me “because no one ever looks up anymore”.

In not too many days she turns 11, which worries her.
“No one takes an 11 year old seriously. How did you manage to survive it?”

She mentioned something about a summer love, how some boy with a typical name is surprising to her.
“I read that book you gave me, and there doesn’t seem to be much behind his name. What am I supposed to do with that?”

When asked how her music lessons with Pookah were going she became frazzled.
“I don’t think he understands what I say. When I say movement I mean damn movement!”

After I commented on her foul language she cited our Grandfather that she barely remembers, save for the stories I tell her.
“Swearing is hard to do poetically. We must try frequently to achieve this.”

She asked me to tell her a story of how it all used to be. The little thing as nostalgic as me, taking comfort in the what was.
“I know we’re not morons, I know we’re not stupid, but is it foolish? Is that what a fool is? We can be fools together… Right?”

She does this thing when something really makes her feel. This reverberating silence, not unlike the pulse before a thunderstorm. And when those moments hit, it’s best to not poke her, though I always do. It’s out of preparation that I do this to her. Better me than some asshole.
“Sissy, I love you, okay? But I really hate you too.”

Yes, babydoll, it’s okay.
Just don’t forget it.
The of it all.