There were always words.

Even when she needed both of her tiny hands to form them.

Words carefully spelled  with blue and red wooden blocks.

When her daddy got home from the Ford plant he knelt down beside her, 

 folding his lanky frame in front of the stove where his wife was cooking supper.

One hand held a Budweiser. The other tossled her curly blonde hair

“Spell your name.”

He helped her move the blocks to form her name.

B -R -E -N -D -A

Her mama bent over to read the words

“You’re going to turn her into a damn pencil pusher, Clarke.”

But she was laughing.


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