She traces the lines on my hand with her fingers while we talk, sprawled across my lap with her legs straight up in the air. Her tights are on a bit crooked; the pink feet don’t quite line up on her toes. She’s squirmy. The sun is shining through the front windows of our home in slants we can feel on our faces indoors. It’s brisk out there, still early March. Mountains of dirty city snow on the corners. We hear the bus stop out front.
“The boy loved his friend the squirrel. They climbed trees together?” she begins. She’s hesitant at first.
“Yes! Yes. Good start. And when the wind blew, they practiced catching leaves,” I say.
She adjusts her body and turns to her side, never once letting go of my hand. We’re sitting on the couch and I wonder fleetingly why she can’t sit beside me, why she has to, at 5, lay directly on top of me. There are long pauses between each of our story’s sentences as we think about how to craft it aloud.
“They collected those leaves in a basket.”
This, more convincingly.
“Some were crispy.”
She’s smiling now. The story has momentum.
“Some leaves were wet!”
“The leaves were all different colors,” I add.
“Rainbow leaves!” she interjects, smiling wide.
She’s pleased with this piece we’re co-creating. Sometimes when we build stories we build block towers too. The visual representation of our thoughts going up, up, up.
“What should they do with the rainbow leaves they’ve collected?” I ask, now absent-mindedly braiding her hair. Her hair is straight and feathery, so different from mine. The braid won’t hold on its own. I long to have my own mother run her hands through my hair. What care and devotion and sweetness there is in the act of braiding. I tell myself: savor this.
She thinks. She’s silent for a moment.
“Probably make a project then get married.” She giggles.
I love this girl’s mind. I love that while we are all still home and the baby is asleep for a brief window and that window coincides with no work meetings, I can cuddle our third child in the middle of the day. The one who, this time last year, wasn’t welcome in school for her screaming and refusal to ‘follow the rules.’
Together, we build stories.
Slice of Life, Day 3
❤️❤️❤️
OMG, I love her stories. You could have her record them!
Love the audio.
". . . A collaborative wedding. . ."
So much fun in reading and listening to your posts!
Nawal, I enjoy reading and listening to your three posts. I think that all are related. My name is Jimena, only a few English speakers can say it right!
This was so beautiful to listen to and read! I love how seamlessly you interject your own thoughts into the telling of the story. What a great way to capture memories that you otherwise may have forgotten. This will be such a fun and meaningful archive to return to.
The invitation for your sweet little on to continue telling her story warmed my heart! Multimodal blogs are becoming more and more appealing to me, each time I visit your blog! As a third child in a sibling group of four, I’m secretly rooting for this young author. Your mothering, teaching, and coaching skills sets the bar high for others. I’m in awe of your writing, Nawal.
I can tell you are savoring these moments. I love the image of building the story with blocks as you build with words. I related to so much of this as a mom of three. Sneaking in snuggles. Braiding. Your love shines through.
I was captured immediately by the sound of your voice and hers in the audio clip, sensing the ease between you, the trust in this shared activity. Your writing is beautifully descriptive, your thoughts perfectly balanced with the dialogue. A softly joyous Slice; thank you for sharing your writing, and your voices, with us today.