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May 15, 2002
You nodded toward a little girl and said, “I bet you looked like that when you were 4.” She, with crooked pigtails and fat cheeks and curious brown eyes. Her stockings ruched at her ankles, one sandal unbuckled, fat little tummy sticking over the top of a corduroy skirt. I stared at her, me with smooth outfit, smart shoes, all zipped up and pressed into professional denial of adulthood, and I envied. I tugged my topknot loose and smiled at her, for her, with her, am her. Before I started to cry, you said, “Hey, it‘s green, we‘ll be late.”