Seasons are easy to sum up, but not you at seven. I often see your thoughts whirling round and up and up like leaves in the wind. My autumn child. Not summer, not winter, but the in-between. You’re the in-between. There are two of you, so many of you. One, for the people you love: goofy and loving, nonstop-talking. Another for the rest of the world, in which you hold back, observe, keep your thoughts to yourself. I took out my paintbrushes and tried to draw your world today, you at seven, but I didn’t draw your eyes; I can never do them justice. They say so much. You’re deeply independent, unflinchingly honest. You can be positive about the greyest cloud. Never conflicted about what you feel. And when your questions come, they’re as sharp and clear as raindrops on blades of grass.
“Ma, why does extraordinary mean something really special when it’s extra + ordinary?” you asked yesterday.
Happy birthday, our Chotto-ma! You’re seven. That’s seven whole years of making our lives a little less ordinary. We love you more than all the leaves that fall in autumn.