You turned eight today. So I’m sitting here trying to draw you a phoenix because I know it’ll make you squeal with joy.
As you grow older, I find myself less willing to write about you. Not about the books you love and the rocks you collect, but about the person you are. Your thoughts, your heart, the way you look at the world – the things that really matter, the things that make you the very unique eight-year-old you are. So if you’re reading the blog some day, when you’re as old as me, and see the silences here, know that I’m keeping you to myself. I’m keeping you to yourself.
When we decide to leave our phones and cameras at home for the day, and then suddenly find ourselves living a moment – like you picking wildflowers in the sunset – and I wish I could take a photograph, you remind me of what I’d once told you, “Ma, we can take a photo with our memory.”
So that’s what we’re doing, Ba and I. We’re taking photos in the privacy of our memories. And telling you, every day, with words and squishes and the occasional phoenix, how much we love you.
You make us believe in magic.