Man, I can't wait to really talk to you. Even from what we can say to each other now, it's deep. You have this nascent honed and exact-timed sense of humor, you have communication down with only simple ingredients. So much is shared there already.
So much concurrent difference. We're both bad at goodbyes, and different in that you actually express that. We both love music, only you still let it echo through you and dance at any excuse.
We both play piano. You're pithier in your playing; you express a tired or whimsical or flat-out barbaric mood in 10 to 15 seconds and then move on to the next activity.
I let the piano's predilection for sentiment run its course, putting up a sad little tent in that maudlin space between Ben Folds 5 verses. You know instinctively that a piano can overwhelm a mix, that it can overwhelm a mood. You know that once the spotlight settles on Tori or Billy a kind of calcification begins, a kind of mold begins developing around the ears of listeners, that death wins the day.
Last night you slept through the night, which I thought was a pretty rugged thing for a little person to do. It's dark then, full of monsters and bad dreams whose names you don't even know. This not knowing the names is a source of your strength, and a test of your bravery, and I'm so proud of you, of your every grow and change.
As you learn the names, I get the feeling you'll know better what to do with them. I look forward to you showing us.
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