Once upon there was a little girl with
dirty blonde braids who lived in a tiny brick house with a huge backyard where
her daddy grew strawberries, onions, and something icky, called Swiss chard.
Her favorite possession was a pair of white rain boots, and her favorite days
were the rainy ones, when the red clay street turned into a sticky, oozy
wonderland. She loved to dip her white booted toe into the puddle and watch the
mud swirl and wiggle into patterns, like a miniature Milky Way.
On the other side of the mud was a school
house, and it was here the girl struggled with penmanship. Her mother made her
copy passages from books onto long pads of yellow lined paper. This whole
copying business didn't sit well with the girl, so she started making up her
own stories. She was eager to learn each new capital letter and longed for the
day she would learn to make a Z. Then she could write about
Zillian, a beautiful girl, her alter ego, her imaginary twin.
I'm not sure what happened to Zillian, but the
street and parking lot were paved, and the girl grew up into me. I don't have
white rubber rain boots anymore, but I do love to dip my toes in puddles -- and
I can write a pretty snazzy Z.
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