Tonight when I tucked Little J into bed she asked if she could read to me from her diary. It was a diary from when she was in grade four and I have no idea how she managed to hang on to it when everything else in her house was lost in the wreckage. But she had it, and she read to me her thoughts from three years, so long!, ago. It was lovely and precious. It's funny that as she grows up I sometimes forget, just momentarily, who she was when she was small. I want to help her keep access to that side of herself, the part that was totally optimistic and trusting.
I feel so angry with C for wasting time in Little J's childhood, wasting and corrupting that innocence and optimism while it was pure and new. She totally blew it.
It's a miracle in a way that she still retains that positive, cheerful nature in the face of all she's had to deal with. It's the thing, I believe, that will get her through it all.
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