I put the first copy in my bag, wanted to bring it along to show my sister.
About an hour into the trip, I heard my girl laughing in the back seat.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
"Your book," she said.
She'd quietly pulled it from the bag when I wasn't looking. I'd been driving, listening to music, admiring the field grasses now purpling at their tips. I'd been noticing twin bright lemon butterflies dancing on air, and I'd been feeling a longing for the connection that these air-dancers seemed to speak of.
My girl read the whole way, sometimes laughing, sometimes pausing to tell me more about some story I'd told (and had only known the half of).
When I pulled into my sister's driveway and turned off the car, my girl didn't move. "We're here," I encouraged her, wanting her to put the book down.
"I'm on the last page," she said.
I waited quietly, looking out into the pines and the wild-flower yard.
"It's not exactly what happened," she said. "But it's perfect."
"I understand," I said. Then I whispered the last line of the book to her and added, "It's for you too, you know, not just for Sonia. It's my love letter to both of you."
She leaned forward and hugged me, and we sat there holding each other for a long moment. My heart, in its way, danced butterfly-bright on air.
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Floral designs by Sonia, 11. Sara in the car (snapped in transit... I pointed the camera backwards, clicked, and hoped for the best :)