We had a girl in 2003. She’ll be 12 this summer. Unlike her older brother she is of pastel colors and random giggles. Her room is purple with unicorn-ish bedding and a cotton candy lampshade. Her hair-ties shimmer of glitter and some of her socks do too. She laughs a lot and says it feels good to do so and only recently began brooding, briefly, returning to silly spells on the carpet, a turtle on its back. Her addition to our chemistry is immeasurable, her desire for the tips of her hair to be blue, immense.
“Hey, crazy turtle. You do your homework?”
“Turtles don’t need algebra.”
“Sure they do.”
“Nope, ask any of ’em.”
“Do turtles take showers?” my wife asks.
“Not me, man.”
We wait and she uncoils and ends up with her chin in her hands. “Can I get a turtle?”
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