sophistication

So I'm sitting outside watching my little sister, she doesn't know I can see her, or that I am even out here. She is twelve, fully going on 16. Heavy eyeliner, trendy hair, decked out in hollister, boyfriends, constant cell phone, etc etc. It is a rare moment when we get a glimpse of cute little Emma, the one that carried around her little yellow crusty bacteria laden blanket everywhere and said adorable things, mouth stuffed with blanket, like "I can't bweve" when the car got too stuffy.

So I'm watching her play alone on this bench we have in our yard, I think she has constructed a worm family and is thusly making them play house, judging by the wafts of little emma voice that make its way over here from time to time. (god these poor worms). Yes, one of them is late for school.

Okay, the really cute part is when she started getting kind of upset, then really upset, and apologizing profusely. This apologizing is loud and clear. And now she is digging a hole in the ground. She is um, def crying. I think she killed a worm and is burying it. After the remains have I suppose, been appropriately dealt with by Emma's standards, little Emma promptly returned to le sigh Emma. Stood up, dusted off her pants, flipped her hair seventeen different ways, fixed her eyeliner, pulled out her cell phone and is walking towards me. All flippant and slightly annoyed to even have to ask, she inquires if caterpillars are one of those things that can like, you know, do that regeneration thing if like maybe it like, gets cut in half by accident. No, Emma, you are a worm murderer. But, the worm sacrifice was totally worth this last fifteen minutes - not that I'll ever let her know this. poor worm.


(if you squint, that's emma, remembering for a brief moment, that she is in fact only 12)