Annabel has braces. And boldness. And brains.
And we are entering that crossroad.
I pretend it's the sea.
She's given up dance and taken up theater. She has a voice coach as well as a basketball coach.
She no longer plays at dress up. She's now a professional.
She'll be T-H-I-R-T-E-E-N in a few weeks (13?howisthatpossible?)
I've rummaged through picture files here on the fingerprint stained laptop I somehow managed to wrestle away from her brother, but I couldn't find much of anything recent to show you.
She is more her own now, in ways that are not mine to tell.
Silas is more of himself, as well, now that he's the grand old age of nine.
His body hasn't yet caught up to his feet, but it doesn't matter his size.
These days he takes the stairs two at a time, wearing a santa hat and last year's pajamas.
Legs visible from the calves, he claims he's never outgrown things.
Beatific, barely bespectacled boy, who sings in the shower and doesn't care who's listening.
He'll hug you if you ask him. Gladly.
But, no pictures, please.
And he'll tell you about his dreams: That one day he will be bigger than a French car.