Coming upstairs long after I’ve tucked Emily, in and finding her in her too-short pajamas, bare feet on the cold wood floor, pencil clutched, scratching on a scrunched-up scrap of paper.
Mama: What are you doing?
Emily: Well, it’s just that I was trying to sleep, and I cam up with a question about life and I just had to write it down.
Smile. Close door. That girl.
(Four short years ago, and she’s still the same.)