2014
December 30, 2014
In the winter of 2014, Chloe was four years old. I was fourteen. It was a big year for us, looking back. I had asked Chloe’s mom if I could help babysit over the holidays, and that winter break was the foundation for our friendship.
We’d play outside in the morning while it was cool, jumping on a trampoline their older sister, Faith, had gotten for a birthday years before. When the air got too suffocating we’d move indoors and play for hours in Chloe’s bedroom.
As the youngest grandchild in the family, Chloe had every toy that had ever been through the family. Every doll, every Lego, every sparkly pencil that had been given to someone older was in a fabric cube in Chloe’s bedroom.
At this age, Chloe took a mild strike against hair-brushing.
This doodle session boasts a post-nap tangle that would have led to tears had we tried to run a brush. It drove me nuts, we comprised by braiding it sometimes. That was something I could lend where Faith didn’t. She was the master of make-believe, pretend-playing truly whenever possible, an act I couldn’t manage without cringing and Chloe reveled in.
Where siblings were concerned, Faith often brought the magic.