21 years ago

... Kelly hunted me down to tell on Erin.

It seems Erin had left her book-bag somewhere where Kelly could trip over it, and Kelly had gone ahead and tripped over it and fallen hard on the hardwood floor. An affront of this magnitude, Kelly felt, could be remedied only through swift and sure corporal punishment at the stinging hand of me.

So she stormed out to the kitchen and demanded a pound of Erin's flesh by parental proxy, expressing in no uncertain terms the length, width, height, and depth of her older sister's culpability.

Fortunately, generously dished commiseration was enough to carry the day, and, mollified, Kelly began scribbling a circular pattern in the condensation on the kitchen window—that irresistible magic slate. After a moment or two she settled into inscribing her name:

She formed the K, the E, and the two L's before running out of room at the frame; then, without hesitation, drew the Y in front of the K.

And this is what our children teach us if we're paying attention: All things are possible. All things make sense. Boundaries of thought and action do not exist. But, alas, the sublime solution of placing the Y before the K becomes ever more elusive the older we get.

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