She’s wearing a pair of purple tights and a shirt with stripes of lemon and lime. Her tiny ankle socks match the overall yellowish-green of the shirt, and her feet are trying to wrap around the baby-size chair that used to belong to her younger self (not much younger though, considering she is not even in her teens yet.)
I notice the purple outline around the collar of the shirt:
“Those are some courageous color combos, my tiny one!” I nearly say out loud, but then I stop myself: Getting off on embarrassing a child would make me a major shithead!
And it’s not even mytype of purple either — but it is hers — as we’d figured out over the years. But, actually, her favorite color is green, so she often secretly dedicates her purple choices — to me. Her green is democratic: She likes most shades of it. Although, come to think of it, I’ve never really asked. When ever had I become one of those silly grown-ups — to dare taking these details for granted!
Her most heartbreaking features are her mother’s freckles and her father’s strawberry chin. From the way the sunlight hits her face, I notice the freckles — they now take up her whole cheeks, from the bridge of the nose and up to the temples; and I suppress a desire to hug her: She’s all grown up now — and way too mature for my mushy nonsense. So, I sort of let her dictate the boundaries, on her terms; and keep my grown-up business to myself.
For the last hour, she’s been playing with her father’s iPhone, pulling up songs we both might like. Some tunes are original. Others — are a remake by Glee: all the rave among the kids these days. (And if it weren’t for her, I would have never known it: I AM a grown-up, after all!)
Here comes the widely popular tune of this year: “There’s a fire starting in my heart…”
“Do you like Adele?” she has once asked me before, while hanging out in my bedroom. It made for a long discussion, that night, and we each took turns browsing YouTube for our favorite tunes and dancing. Yes, actually dancing: She, non-vainly, and I — unleashed by her innocence.
“Do you like Adele?” she echos now, looking up at me past her long bangs.
I like the way she wears her hair: It’s always shiny and sleek, never the tumbleweed seen in the photographs of me when I was her age.
We have both grown up as tomboys: I, perpetually clad in sweats as soon as I could get out of my itchy uniform, was always trying to outrun the boys and to lead the armies of first-graders in search of treasures on our town’s rooftops. She — kicks ass at soccer, climbs trees, plays handball; rides bicycles and rollerblades, masterfully and much better than me; and she always looks out for those who are tinier and more helpless. She is kind. She is always kind. For me, kindness, by now, takes discipline. To her — it’s still second nature. Or the first.
We’ve grown up under much different restrictions: I was bound to endless rules by my motha, the pedagogue, and the regulations of bureaucrats that dictated our lives. She, however, is ruled by common sense. Like her American-born parents, she is in tune with the concept of freedom and is already more aware of her rights and liberties at the age of ten. Unlike me, she also knows that choices come with a consequence.
Like this one — of her procrastinating on her homework for the sake keeping me company.
“Set me free, why don’t cha, baby?!” — the girl cast of Glee is now hollering my favorite song.
“Love that song!” I mumble. But she is already sneaking a peak over her shoulder and suppressing a gleeful smile. She knows.
Alright! Enough of the nonsense: It’s time for the homework! Or, so the adults tell her.
“Last one! Last one, I promise!” she says, but doesn’t plead. She is SO much cooler than me! Cooler than I’ve ever been!
It’s Glee, again: “I’m walking on sunshine, wooah!”
In a matter of seconds, she bounces, puts the iPhone away, whips out her backpack and plops down in a chair across the table from me. When she thinks, she looks away (sometimes chewing on a pencil): My own childhood habit. Which dreams is she sizing up, right now? What brave escapes is she plotting?
Bright and self-sufficient, she completes the work effortlessly, in a matter of minutes. No problem. She never gives the grown-ups a problem. Neither did I. It’s easier that way: keeps you clear of their nonsense.
But she does say though:
“I wish eight went into 60 evenly.”
I suppress a chuckle — and another hug. I still wish for such things all the time, my tiny one! And that — still! — must be just a matter of my innocence; or what’s left of it.