I fit the pieces together like a puzzle—the hidden drawing, the tear falling from its eye, the upside-down “u” frown for a mouth, and Evelyn barely looking at her drawing while saying the words “I hate it.”
It all lands in me at once, bringing misty eyes and a complex feeling: Evelyn is maturing.
It’s not her usual rainbow or a flower, but a sparse, witch’s-broom-haired girl. The hair red to match her own. The “OMG” as a title instead of “love.”
Was it shame around these feelings that made her fold it up and hide it? Was this little girl trying to reverse the pain, to stuff it back into itself—the immensity of Pandora’s box—only to realize it couldn’t be undone?
From steady footing, I point to each part of the picture. I name its beauty, its okay-ness. And I watch her look again—this time her quick glances linger a little longer.
She breathes.
And it feels like time pauses at a decision point: accept or reject.
And it’s the same for me.
Accept that this sweet, freckled-nose, princess-of-play is expanding into more of herself. It’s terrifying. And I want this folded-up paper—the tear-streaked face—to go back in the box. I’m not ready.
But life doesn’t work like that.
So I stay.
And I meet her courage with my own.
She asks, “You want me to draw you a duck?”
And for a moment, I just look at her.
All of that weight, all of that unfolding—held in one small, ordinary question.
Then I smile.
“Yes,” I say. “Draw me a duck.”
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 