Thursday, February 7, 2013


I am in the kitchen peeling hard boiled eggs and listening to The Maytrees by Annie Dillard. 

His fondness for humans did not extend to girls, who were less interesting than frogs, and noisier.

C enters and stands in the doorway, listening.

Girls had no higher wish than to get old enough to wear make-up.
 C: "Who is saying that?"

I tell her it's a story, and that this part is about a boy.

"How old is this boy?"

"He's 11."

"But what he's saying is his opinion.  And it's fiction."

"It is fiction," I say.

"And his opinion.  Because you do other things besides wear make-up."

"I do."

"Lots of other things."

"So many."

"Like, you make make egg salad."

Then she leaves the kitchen and I'm left making egg salad.    

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