We’re both sitting here this morning working on letters (well, she’s working on numbers, too.) I push little square plastic buttons on the keyboard and the letters appear, black and sans-serif, perfectly aligned; yet still I rearrange them endlessly.
She chooses from among sixty-four colors like marigold and cerulean and orchid, and fills in the centers of her O’s and 8’s and sings her version of the alphabet, which currently sounds like “O-O-B-O-E-E-E-O.”
I open another blank document; she runs to the printer for another worksheet.
We’re not that different, she and I.