The bro and me loving Mom at last summer’s Cousins Reunion
As a kid, I was pretty sure I was adopted since Mom and I didn’t look much alike.
Her hair was curly.
Mine was straight.
She had blue eyes.
Mine were hazel.
She was strong as Laura Ingalls Wilder’s proverbial French pony.
I was a a pathetic weakling.
Her face was round and freckled.
Mine was long and pale.
But last week, as we drove by a brick house with trim painted an unusual shade of blue, the adoption myth was laid to rest. In unison, we said, “I’m not sure that paint job does that house any favors.” In unison, we burst out laughing. And do you know what I found out when we hooked our little fingers and said, “Pinky friends?”
She’s still strong as that little French pony,
I’m still a pathetic weakling,
And I want to be her pinky friend forever.
