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The other day, I was passing through Annabelle’s bedroom when a painting taped to the wall caught my eye.
It’s a watercolor, one of dozens posted all over the walls and doors of the tiny room, mixed in with Polaroid photos and letters from friends, a small blue structure with a terracotta roof, hovering above a field of green trees, held up with four purple roots. But not just roots to the ground.
Two strong roots pop from the side, as well, stretching toward — something.
My older daughter builds houses from watercolors, fabric, felt, clay and ink. I think it started when she went away to college. Or maybe when she came home, suddenly, in March of her freshman year.
I don’t know why. I haven’t asked. To be honest, I don’t want to hear her answer — just in case it’s not the same as mine.
