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Showing posts from May, 2008

Cheerleaders and Nuns

We once had a daughter who was not much more than a giggly blonde roll of baby. She had no ankles or wrists, just creases where connections with hands and feet should be. One morning as I was slow roasting a pop tart she descended the stairs – stairs she has descended often, as a princess, as Kimberly Locke, as a fashion diva, as a two year old who missed the first step and had a miserable experience with gravity – but at some point during the descents she changed. In five years cataclysmic metamorphosis had progressed so daily that it lulled me to sleep and rendered delusions that I was still the father of a baby girl. The giggly roll of blonde baby had moved away and a much taller, more slender, sandy blonde with a fashionable haircut now called me dad. She had wrists and ankles. One day she will descend the stairs a lady; at such point I will be a mess. Little girls become something far different with age. Who will she be? It was not many mornings later that I caught a Sout